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VERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFOI 


HUMOROUS  POETRY 

OF  TUB 

ENGLISH    LANGUAGE, 

FROM   CHAUCER  TO    SAXE. 


NARRATIVES,  BURLESQUES,  EPIGRAMS, 

SATIRES,  PARODIES,  EPITAPHS, 

ENIGMAS,  TRAVESTIES,  TRANSLATIONS. 

INOLTJDING  THE  MOST 

CELEBRATED    COMIC    POEMS 

OF 

TELE    ANTI-JACOBIN,   REJECTED   ADDRESSES,   THE    INGOLDSliY 

LEGENDS,  BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE,  BENTLEY'S 

MISCELLANY,  AND  PUNCH. 

WITH   MOBE   THAN 

TWO    HUNDRED     EPIGRAMS, 

AND  THE  CHOICEST  HUMOROUS  POETRY  OF 

WOLCOTT,  PKAED,  AYTOUX,  SAXB,  BYRON, 

COWPER,  SWIFT,  GAY,  HOOD,  MOOKK, 

LAMB,  SCOTT,  BURNS,  PRIOR,  I.OWEIX, 

THACKERAY,  HOLMES,  SOUTHKY,  COLEUIDGE,  ETC. 


WITH  NOTES,  EXPLANATORY  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL, 

BY    J     PARTON. 

SIXTH     EDITION. 

NEW  YORK: 
PinftTlSHED    BY    MASON    BROTHERS, 

108  AND  110  DUANE  STPwEET. 

1857. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year   1SV»,  liy 

MASON     BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the"  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


STERKOTTPED  BT  PRINTED   BT 

THOMAS    B.    SMITH,  C.  A.  ALVOBD, 

82  A  84  Beekman  Street.  16  Vandewator  St. 


PREFACE. 


THE  design  of  the  projector  of  this  volume  was,  that  it  should 
contain  the  Best  of  the  shorter  humorous  poems  in  the  literatures 
of  England  and  the  United  States,  except : 

Poems  so  local  or  cotemporary  in  subject  or  allusion,  as  not  to 
be  readily  understood  by  the  modern  American  reader ; 

Poems  which,  from  the  freedom  of  expression  allowed  in  the 
healthy  ages,  can  not  now  be  read  aloud  in  a  company  of  men 
and  women ; 

Poems  that  have  become  perfectly  familiar  to  every  body,  from 
their  incessant  reproduction  in  school-books  and  newspapers ;  and 

Poems  by  living  American  authors,  who  have  collected  their 
humorous  pieces  from  the  periodicals  in  which  most  of  them 
originally  appeared,  and  given  them  to  the  world  in  their  own 
names. 

Holmes,  Saxe,  and  Lowell  are,  therefore,  only  represented  in 
this  collection.  To  have  done  more  than  fairly  represent  them, 
had  been  to  infringe  rights  which  are  doubly  sacred,  because 
they  are  not  protected  by  law.  To  have  done  less  would  have 
deprived  the  reader  of  a  most  convenient  means  of  observing 
that,  in  a  kind  of  composition  confessed  to  be  among  the  most 
difficult,  our  native  wits  are  not  excelled  by  foreign. 

The  editor  expected  to  be  embarrassed  with  a  profusion  of 
material  for  his  purpose.  But,  on  a  survey  of  the  poetical  litera 
ture  of  the  two  countries,  it  was  discovered  that,  of  really  excel 
lent  humorous  poetry,  of  the  kinds  universally  interesting,  un- 


IV  PREFACE. 

tainted  by  obscenity,  not  marred  by  coarseness  of  language,  nor 
obscured  by  remote  allusion,  the  quantity  in  existence  is  not 
great  It  is  thought  that  this  volume  contains  a  very  large  pro 
portion  of  the  best  pieces  that  have  appeared. 

An  unexpected  feature  of  the  book  is,  that  there  is  not  a  line 
in  it  by  a  female  hand.  The  alleged  foibles  of  the  Fair  have 
given  occasion  to  libraries  of  comic  verse;  yet,  with  diligent 
search,  no  humorous  poems  by  women  have  been  found  which 
are  of  merit  suflicient  to  give  them  claim  to  a  place  in  a  collec 
tion  like  this.  That  lively  wit  and  graceful  gayety,  that  quick 
perception  of  the  absurd,  which  ladies  are  continually  displaying 
in  their  conversation  and  correspondence,  never,  it  seems,  sug 
gest  the  successful  epigram,  or  inspire  happy  satirical  verse. 

The  reader  will  not  be  annoyed  by  an  impertinent  superfluity 
of  notes.  At  the  end  of  the  volume  may  be  found  a  list  of  the 
sources  from  which  its  contents  have  been  taken.  For  the  conve 
nience  of  those  who  live  remote  from  biographical  dictionaries,  a 
few  dates  and  other  particulars  have  been  added  to  the  mention 
of  each  name.  For  valuable  contributions  to  this  portion  of  the 
volume,  and  for  much  well-directed  work  upon  other  parts  of  it, 
the  reader  is  indebted  to  Mr.  T.  BUTLER  G  UNN,  of  this  city. 

There  is,  certainly,  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  fun  of  a 
man  of  genius.  Humor,  as  Mr.  Thackeray  observes,  is  charming, 
and  poetry  is  charming,  but  the  blending  of  the  two  in  the  same 
composition  is  irresistible.  There  is  much  nonsense  in  this  book, 
and  some  folly,  and  a  little  ill-nature ;  but  there  is  more  wisdom 
than  either.  They  who  possess  it  may  congratulate  themselves 
upon  having  the  largest  collection  ever  made  of  the  sportive  effu 
sions  of  genius. 


INDEX 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.                       PAGE 

To  my  Empty  Purse Chaucer    .     .     .     .21 

To  Chloe Peter  Pindar  ...  21 

To  a  Fly "            ...  22 

Man  may  be  Happy "            ...  24 

Address  to  the  Toothache Burns 25 

The  Pig Soutliey      ....  26 

Snuff "       28 

Farewell  to  Tobacco Lamb 29 

Written  after  swimming  from  Sestos  to  Aby- 

dos Byron 33 

The  Lisbon  Packet "       34 

To  Fanny Moore 36 

Young  Jessie "       3 1 

Rings  and  Seals "        38 

Nets  and  Cages "       39 

Salad Sydney  Smith    .    .  40 

My  Letters Barham     ....  41 

Tho  Poplar "       44 

Spring Hood 45 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Clapham  Acad 
emy  "        46 

Schools  and  School-fellows Praed 50 

Tho  Vicar "        52 

The  Bachelor's  Cane-bottomed  Chair  .     .     .  Thackeray ....  54 

Stanzas  to  Pale  Ale Punch 56 

Children  must  be  paid  for "       57 

The  Musquito Bryant 58 

To  the  Lady  hi  the  Chemisette  with  Black 

Buttons WiUis GO 

Come  out,  Love "       62 

The  White  Chip  Hat "       63 

You  know  if  it  was  you "       64 

The  Declaration  .  "                           .  64 


VI  INDEX. 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.                     PAGE 

Love  in  a  Cottage Willis 65 

To  Helen  in  a  Huff " GG 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous 0.  W.  Holmes   .     .  G7 

The  Briefless  Barrister J.  G.  Saxe   .     .     .  G8 

Sonnet  to  a  Clam "             ...  69 

Yenus  of  the  Needle AUingham    ...  70 


NARRATIVE. 

Take  thy  Old  Cloak  about  thee Percy  Eeliques  .     .     75 

King  John  and  the  Abbot "                .     .     77 

The  Baffled  Knight,  or  Lady's  Policy ...  "                .     .     80 

Truth  and  Falsehood Prior 85 

Flattery Williams  (Sir  C.  H.)  87 

The  Pig  and  Magpie Peter  Pindar     .    .     89 

Advice  to  Young  Women "          ...     90 

Economy "           ...     91 

The  Country  Lasses "          ...     93 

The  Pilgrims  and  Peas "          ...     95 

On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Cat Gray 97 

The  Retired  Cat Cowper    ....     99 

Saying,  not  Meaning Wake 102 

Julia. Coleridge.     .     .     .  104 

A  Cock  and  Hen  Story Southey    ....  105 

The  Search  after  Happiness Scott  (Sir  W.)  .     .115 

The  Donkey  and  his  Panniers Moore 124 

Misadventure  at  Margate Barliam  .     .     .     .125 

The  Ghost "           ....  129 

A  Lay  of  St.  Gengulphus "          ....  13G 

Sir  Rupert  the  Fearless "          .     .    .     .  14G 

Look  at  the  Clock "          ....  156 

The  Bagman's  Dog "          ....  164 

Dame  Fredegonde W.  Aytoun   .     .    .181 

The  King  of  Brentford's  Testament    .     .     .  Thackeray    .     .     .184 

Titmarsh's  Carmen  Lillienses " 191 

Shadows •    .  Lantern   ....  194 

The  Retort G.P.Morris    .     .  im; 

SATIRICAL. 

The  Rabble,  or  Who  Pays  ? S.  Butter  .    .    .    .199 

The  Chameleon Prior 200 

The  Merry  Andrew " 201 

Jack  and  Joan "               ...  202 


INDEX.  vil 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.                     PAGE 

The  Progress  of  Poetry Swift 204 

Twelve  Articles " 205 

The  Beast's  Confession " 20G 

A  New  Simile  for  the  Ladies Sheridan  (Dr.  T.)  .  212 

On  a  Lap-dog- Gay 215 

The  Razor  Seller. Peter  Pindar     .    .216 

The  Sailor  Boy  at  Prayers "          ...  217 

Bienseance "          ...  218 

Kings  and  Courtiers "          ...  220 

Praying  for  Rain "          ...  222 

Apology  for  Kings "           ...  223 

Ode  to  the  Devil "          ...  226 

The  King  of  Spain  and  the  Horse  ....  "          ...  231 

The  Tender  Husband "          ...  233 

The  Soldier  and  the  Virgin  Mary  ....  "          ...236 

A  King  of  France  and  the  Fair  Lady.     .     .  "          ...  238 

The  Eggs Yriarte    ....  239 

The  Ass  and  his  Master "         ....  241 

The  Love  of  the  World  Reproved,  or  Hypoc 
risy  Detected Cowper    ....  241 

Report  of  an  Adjudged  Case " 242 

Holy  Willie's  Prayer Burns 243 

Epitaph  on  Holy  Willie " 246 

Address  to  the  Deil " 247 

The  Devil's  Walk  on  Earth Soufhey    .     .    .     .250 

Church  and  State Moore 259 

Lying " 260 

The  Millennium " 261 

The  Little  Grand  Lama " 263 

Eternal  London " 266 

On  Factotum  Ned " 267 

Letters  (Fudge  Correspondence),  First  Letter         " 269 

«  Second  "  " 273 

»  "  Third     "  " 276 

The  Literary  Lady Sheridan  (R  R)    .  281 

Netley  Abbey Barham  ....  282 

Family  Poetry "         ....  287 

The  Sunday  Question Hood 289 

Ode  to  Rae  Wilson,  Esquire " 294 

Death's  Ramble " 307 

The  Bachelor's  Dream " 309 

On  Samuel  Rogers Byron 311 

My  Partner .  Praed.    *     ...  313 

The  Belle  of  the  Ball " 316 

1* 


vm  INDEX. 

8TTBJEOT.  AUTHOR.                   PAGK 

Sorrows  of  Werther Thackeray    .     .     .318 

The  Yankee  Volunteer "           ...  319 

Courtship  and  Matrimony "           ...  321 

Concerning  Sisters-in-law Punch 322 

The  Lobsters " 324 

To  Song  Birds  on  a  Sunday " 324 

The  First  Sensible  Valentine « 325 

A  Scene  on  the  Austrian  Frontier .     ...         " 327 

Ode  to  the  Great  Sea  Serpent " 328 

The  Feast  of  Vegetables  and  the  Flow  of  Wa 
ter     « 330 

Kindred  Quacks "          ....  331 

The  Railway  Traveler's  Farewell  to  his  Fam- 

i]7- " 333 

A  Letter  and  an  Answer " 334 

Papa  to  his  Heir " 336 

Selling  off  at  the  Opera-house " 338 

Wonders  of  the  Victorian  Age "     .     .         .     .339 

To  the  Portrait  of  a  Gentleman Holmes    ....  340 

My  Aunt «          ....  342 

Comic  Miseries Saxe 343 

Idees  Napoleoniennes Aytoun    ....  345 

The  Lay  of  the  Lover's  Friend  .  "                        .  347 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Wine Gay 350 

Ode  on  Science Swift 358 

A  Love  Song » 359 

Baucis  and  Philemon " 3GO 

A  Description  of  a  City  Shower " 3G5 

The  Progress  of  Curiosity Pindar    ....  367 

The  Author  and  the  Statesman Fielding   .     .     .     .382 

The  Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife-Grind- 

er Anti-Jacobin     .     .  384 

Inscription. «  .        386 

Song. Canning  ....  387 

The  Amatory  Sonnets  of  Abel  Shufflebottom    Southey 

1.  Delia  at  Play 388 

2.  The  Poet  proves  the  existence  of  a  Soul 

from  his  Love  for  Delia 389 

3.  The  Poet  expresses  his  feelings  respect 
ing  a  Portrait  hi  Delia's  Parlor ,  .  389 


INDEX.  IX 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGE 

The  Love  Elegies  of  Abel  Shufflebottom .    .     Soutliey 

1.  The  Poet  relates  how  he  obtained  De 
lia's  Pocket-handkerchief 390 

2.  The  Poet  expatiates  on  the  Beauty  of  De 
lia's  Hair   391 

3.  The  Poet  relates  how  he  stole  a  lock  of 

Delia's  Hair,  and  her  anger 392 

The  Baby's  Debut James  Smith    .     .  393 

Playhouse  Musings "              .     .  396. 

A  Tale  of  Drury  Lane Horace  Smith   .     .402 

Drury's  Dirge "              .     .  408 

What  is  Life? Bladcwood    .     .     .410 

Fragments "           ...  412 

The  Confession "           ...  414 

The  Milling    Match  between  Entellus  and 

Dares Moore 415 

Not  a  Sous  had  he  Got JBarham  ....  417 

Raising  the  Devil "          ....  418 

The  London  University "          ....  419 

Domestic  Poems flood 

1.  Good-night 422 

2.  A  Parental  Ode  to  my  Son 423 

3.  A  Serenade 425 

Ode  to  Perry " 42G 

A  Theatrical  Curiosity Cruiksharitts  Om.  .  431 

The  Secret  Sorrow Punch 432 

Song  for  Punch-drinkers " 433 

The  Song  of  the  Humbugged  Husband    .     .         " 433 

Temperance  Song " 434 

Lines " 435 

Madness " 435 

The  Bandit's  Fate "     .     .    „     .     .  43G 

Lines  written  after  a  Battle " 437 

The  Phrenologist  to  his  Mistress     ....         " 437 

The  Chemist  to  his  Love " 438 

A  Ballad  of  Bedlam " 439 

Stanzas  to  an  Egg " 439 

A  Fragment " 440. 

Eating  Soup " 440 

The  Sick  Child " 441 

The  Imaginative  Crisis " 441 

Lines  to  Bessy " 442 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  an  Only  Client  .     .         " 443 

Love  on  the  Ocean  .  ,."..,.  444 


INDEX. 


SUBJECT. 

"Oh!  wilt  thou  Sew  my  Buttons  on?  etc.". 

The  Paid  Bill 

Parody  for  a  Reformed  Parliament  .  .  . 

The  Waiter 

The  Last  Appendix  to  Yankee  Doodle  .  . 

Lines  for  Music 

Drama  for  Every  Day  Life 

Proclivior 

Jones  at  the  Barber's  Shop 

The  Sated  One 

Sapphics  of  the  Cab-stand 

Justice  to  Scotland 

The  Poetical  Cookery-book. 

The  Steak 

Roasted  Sucking  Pig 

Beignet  de  Pomme 

Cherry  Pie 

Deviled  Biscuit.        

Red  Herrings 

Irish  Stew 

Barley  Broth 

Calf's  Heart 

The  Christmas  Pudding 

Apple  Pie 

Lobster  Salad 

Stewed  Steak 

Green  Pea  Soup 

Trifle 

Mutton  Chops 

Barley  Water 

Boiled  Chicken 

Stewed  Duck  and  Peas 

Curry 

The  Railway  Gilpin 

Elegy 

The  Boa  and  the  Blanket 

The  Dilly  and  the  D's 

A  Book  in  a  Bustle 

Stanzas  for  the  Sentimental. 

1.  On  a  Tear    which   Angelina    observed 
trickling  down  my  nose  at  Dinner-time   . 

2.  On  my  refusing  Angelina  a  kiss  under 
the  Mistletoe  . 


AUTHOR.  PAGE 

Punch 445 

" 446 

" 447 

" 447 

" 449 

" 450 

" 451 

" 453 

" 455 

" 456 

" 457 

.  458 


.  459 
.  4GO 
.  461 
.  462 
.  462 
.  463 
.  463 
.  464 
.  464 
.  465 
.  466 
.  467 
.  468 
.  469 
.  470 
.  470 
.  471 
.  472 
.  473 
.  474 
.  475 
.  478 
.  480 
.  485 
.  492 


496 
497 


INDEX.  XI 

SUBJECT.  AXmiOR.                      PAOB 

3.  On  my  finding  Angelina  stop  suddenly  Punch 
in  a  rapid   after-supper-polka  at  Mrs. 

Tompkins'  Ball " 497 

Colloquy  on  a  Cab-stand " 498 

The  Song  of  Hiawatha     .     .  . " 499 

Comfort  in  Affliction Ayioun    .     .     .     .503 

The  Husband's  Petition "          ....  504 

The  Biter  Bit "          ....  506 

A  Midnight  Meditation "           ....  507 

The  Dirge  of  the  Drinker "          ....  510 

Francesca  da  Rimini "           ....  511 

Louis  Napoleon's  Address  to  his  Army   .     .  "          ....  512 

The  Battle  of  the  Boulevard "          ....  513 

Puffs  Poetical. 

1.  Paris  and  Helen "          4    .     .     .  514 

2.  Tarquin  and  the  Augur     ......  "           ....  516 

Reflections  of  a  Proud  Pedestrian  ....  Holmes     .     .     .     .517 

Evening,  by  a  Tailor •  .     .  "          ....  518 

Phsethon Saxe 519 

The  School-house     .  Lowell.                   .522 


EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Epigrams  of Ben  Johnson. 

To  Fine  Grand 525 

"  Brainhardy 525 

"  Doctor  Empiric 52G 

"  Sir  Samuel  Fuller 52G 

On  Banks,  the  Usurer 526 

"  Chevril  the  Lawyer 526 

Epigrammatic  Verses  by Samuel  Butter. 

Opinion 527 

Critics 527 

Hypocrisy 527 

Polish 528 

The  Godly 528 

Piety 528 

Marriage 528 

Poets 528 

Puffing 529 

Politicians • 529 

Feat.  .  529 


Xll  INDEX. 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGK 

The  Law Samuel  Butler  .     .  530 

"      "        530 

"      "         530 

Confession 530 

Smatterers 530 

Bad  Writers 530 

The  Opinionative 531 

Language  of  the  Learned  .     . 531 

Good  Writing 531 

Courtiers 531 

Inventions 531 

Logicians 532 

Laborious  Writers 532 

On  a  Club  of  Sots 532 

Holland. 532 

Women 533 

Epigrams  of Edmund  Waller. 

On  a  Painted  Lady 533 

"  the  Marriage  of  the  Dwarfs 534 

Epigrams  of Matthew  Prior. 

A  Simile 534 

The  Flies 535 

Phillis's  Age 535 

To  the  Duke  do  Noailles 536 

On  Bishop  Atterbury 536 

Forma  Bonum  Fragile .     .     .  537 

Earning  a  Dinner 537 

Bibo  and  Charon 537 

The  Pedant 537 

Epigrams  of Joseph  Addison. 

The  Countess  of  Manchester 538 

To  an  Ill-favored  Lady 538 

"  a  Capricious  Friend 538 

"  a  Rogue 538 

Epigrams  of Akxander  Pope. 

On  Mrs.  Tofts 539 

To  a  Blockhead 539 

The  Fool  and  the  Poet 539 

Epigrams  of Dean  Swift. 

On  Burning  a  Dull  Poem 539 

To  a  Lady 540 

The  Cudgeled  Husband 510 

On  seeing  Verses  written  upon  Windows  at 

Inns  .                                                                                           .  540 


INDEX.  X1U 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAQK 

On  seeing  the  Busts  of  Newton,  Locke,  etc.,  Dean  Swift  .     .    .541 

On  the  Church's  Danger 541 

On  one  Delacourt,  etc 541 

On  a  Usurer 541 

To  Mrs.  Biddy  Floyd 542 

The  Reverse 542 

The  Place  of  the  Damned 543 

The  Day  of  Judgment 544 

Paulus  the  Lawyer Lindsay   ....  544 

Epigrams  by Thomas  Sheridan. 

On  a  Caricature 545 

On  Dean  Swift's  Proposed  Hospital,  etc., 545 

To  a  Dublin  Publisher 545 

"Which  is  Which Byrom     ....  545 

On  some  Lines  of  Lopez  do  Yega  ....     Dr.  Johnson  .     .     .  545 
On  a  Full-length  Portrait  of  Beau  Nash,  etc.,    Chesterfield  .     .     .  546 

On  Scotland Cleveland.     .     .     .  546 

Epigrams  of Peter  Pindar. 

Edmund  Burke's  Attack  on  "Warren  Hast 
ings    546 

On  an  Artist 547 

On  the  Conclusion  of  his  Odes 547 

The  Lex  Talionis  upon  Benjamin  "West 548 

Barry's  Attack  upon  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 549 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Hone 540 

On  George  the  Third's  Patronage  of  Benja 
min  "West    549 

Another  on  the  Same 550 

Epitaph  on  Peter  Staggs 550 

Tray's  Epitaph 550 

On  a  Stone  thrown  at  a  very  great  Man,  etc 551 

A  Consolatory  Stanza 551 

Epigrams  by Robert  Burns. 

The  Poet's  Choice 551 

On  a  celebrated  Ruling  Elder 551 

On  John  Dove 552 

On  Andrew  Turner 552 

On  a  Scotch  Coxcomb 552 

On  Grizzel  Grim 552 

On  a  "Wag  in  Mauchline 553 

Epitaph  on  "W— 553 

On  a  Suicide 553 

Epigrams  from  the  German  of Lessing. 

Niger 553 


I  NDKX. 


A  N  06  Point Lessing    ....  554 

True  Nobility 554 

To  a  Liar 554 

Mendax 554 

The  Bad  Wife 555 

The  Dead  Miser 555 

A  Fall 555 

The  Bad  Orator 555 

The  Wise  Child 555 

Specimen  of  the  Laconic 555 

Cupid  and  Mercury 556 

Fritz 556 

On  Dorilis 556 

To  a  Slow  Walker,  etc 556 

On  Two  Beautiful  One-eyed  Sisters 556 

The  Per  Contra,  or  Matrimonial  Balance 556 

Epigrams  of S.  T.  Coleridge. 

An  Expectoration 557 

Expectoration  the  Second 557 

To  a  Lady 557 

Avaro 557 

Beelzebub  and  Job 558 

Sentimental 558 

An  Eternal  Poem 558 

Bad  Poets 558 

To  Mr.  Alexandre,  the  Ventriloquist  .     .     .     Scott 559 

The  Swallows     . R.B.Sheridan.     .559 

French  and  English Erskine    ....  559 

Epigrams  by TJwinas  Moore. 

To  Sir  Hudson  Lowe 560 

Dialogue 560 

To  Miss 561 

To 561 

On  being  Obliged  to  Leave  a  Pleasant  Par 
ty,  etc 561 

What  my  Thought's  like  ? 561 

From  the  French 562 

A  Joke  Versified 562 

The  Surprise 562 

On 562 

On  a  Squinting  Poetess 562 

Ou  a  Tuft-hunter 563 

The  Kiss 563 

Epitaph  on  Southey 564 


INDEX.  X  V 

BUBJECT.  AUTHOR,  PAQK 

"Written  in  a  Young  Lady's  Common-place 

Book Moore 564 

The  Rabbinical  Origin  of  Women 565 

Anacreoutique 565 

On  Butler's  Monument Wesley     .     .     .    .566 

On  the  Disappointment  of  the  "Whig  Associates 

of  the  Prince  Regent,  etc Lamb 566 

To  Professor  Airey Sydney  Smith  .     .566 

On  Lord  Dudley  and  "Ward Itogers      .     .     .     .566 

Epigrams  of Lord  Byron. 

To  the  Author  of  a  Sonnet,  etc 567 

"Windsor  Poetics 567 

On  a  Carrier,  etc 568 

Epigrams  of R.  H.  Barliam. 

On  the  Windows  of  Bang's  College,  etc. 568 

New-made  Honor 569 

Eheu  Fugaces 569 

Anonymous  Epigrams. 

On  a  Pale  Lady,  etc 569 

Upon  Pope's  Translation  of  Homer 569 

Recipe  for  a  Modern  Bonnet 570 

My  Wife  and  I 570 

On  Two  Gentlemen,  etc 570 

Wellington's  Nose 570 

The  Smoker 571 

An  Essay  on  the  Understanding 571 

To  a  Living  Author 571 

Epigrams  by Thomas  Hood. 

On  the  Art  Unions 571 

The  Superiority  of  Machinery 571 

Epigrams  by W.  Savage  Landor. 

On  Observing  a  Vulgar  Name  on  the  Plinth 

of  a  Statue 572 

Lying  in  State 572 

Epigrams  from Punch. 

The  Cause 572 

Irish  Particular 572 

One  Good  Turn  deserves  Another 573 

Sticky 573 

The  Poet  Foiled 573 

Black  and  White 573 

Inquest — not  Extraordinary 573 

Domestic  Economy 574 

On  Seeing  an  Execution 574 


XVI  INDEX. 

SUBJECT.  ATJTIIOB.  PAGB 

A  Voice,  and  Nothing  Else Punch 574 

The  Amende  Honorable 574 

The  Czar 574 

Bas-Bleu 575 

To  a  Rich  Young  Widow 575 

The  Railway  of  Life 575 

A  Conjugal  Conundrum 575 

Numbers  Altered 576 

Grammar  for  the  Court  of  Berlin 576 

The  Empty  Bottle Aytaun    ....  576 

The  Death  of  Doctor  Morrison Bentleifs  Miscellany  576 

Epigrams  by John  G.  Saxe. 

On  a  Recent  Classic  Controversy 577 

Another 577 

On  an  ill-read  Lawyer 577 

On  an  Ugly  Person  Sitting  for  a  Daguerreo 
type  577 

"Woman's  Will 577 

Family  Quarrels 578 

A  Revolutionary  Hero Loivell 578 

Epigrams  of Halpin. 

The  Last  Resort 578 

Feminine  Arithmetic 579 

The  Mushroom  Hunt 579 

Jupiter  Amans London  Leader  .     .  580 

The  Orator's  Epitaph Lord  Brougham     .  580 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 


The  Jovial  Priest's  Confession Leigh  Hunt  .    .    .583 

Tonis  ad  Resto  Mare Anonymous  .     .     .  584 

Die Dean  Swift  .     .    .  584 

Moll «           ...  585 

To  My  Mistress «           ...  585 

A  Love  Song «           ...  585 

A  Gentle  Echo  on  "Woman «           ...  586 

To  my  Nose Anonymous  .     .     .587 

Roger  and  Dolly Blackwood    .     .     .587 

The  Irishman «                     ^  588 

A  Catalectic  Monody CruikshanWs  Om.  .  589 

A  New  Song Gay    .    .              .590 


INDEX.  XV11 

SUBJECT.  ATTTHOR.                         PAGE 

Reminiscences  of  a  Sentimentalist  ....     Hood 592 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray - &9'1-- 

No! " 590 

Jacob  Omnium's  Hoss Thackeray    .     .     .597 

The  Wofle  Now  Ballad  of  Jano  Honey  and 

Mary  Brown ...  601 

The  Ballad  of  Eliza  Davis ...  603 

Lines  on  a  Late  Ilospicious  Ewent     ...  ...  60G 

The  Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Foundling  of 

Shoreditch "             ...  610 

The  Crystal  Palace ...  613 

The  Speculators ...  617 

A  Letter  from  Mr.  Hosea  Biglow,  etc.     .     .     Lowell 619 

A  Letter  from  a  Candidate  for  the  Presi 
dency     " 623 

The  Candidate's  Creed " 626 

TheCourtin' " 629 

A  Song  for  a  Catarrh Punch 630 

Epitaph  on  a  Candle " 630 

Poetry  on  an  Improved  Principle   ....         " 631 

On  a  Rejected  Nosegay " 632 

A  Serenade " 633 

Railroad  Nursery  Rhyme " 633 

An  Invitation  to  the  Zoological  Gardens .     .         " 634 

To  the  Leading  Periodical " 634 

The  People  and  their  Palace " 635 

A  Swell's  Homage  to  Mrs.  Stowe  ....         " 636 

The  Exclusive's  Broken  Idol " 63? 

The  Last  Kick  of  Fop's  Alley " 637 

The  Mad  Cabman's  Song  of  Sixpence     .     .         " 638 

Alarming  Prospect " 640 

Epitaph  on  a  Locomotive " 643 

The  Ticket  of  Leave " 644 

A  Polka  Lyric Barclay  Phillips    .  646 

A  Sunnit  to  the  Big  Ox Anonymous  .     .     .  646 


ENIGMATIC. 

Riddles  by Matthew  Prior. 

Two  Riddles 651 

Enigma 651 

Another  652 


XV111  INDEX. 

SUBJECT.  AUTHOR.  PAGE 

Riddles  by     .....    ...     Dean  Swift  and  his  friends. 

A  Maypole      .................  652t 

On  the  Moon  .............  (553 

On  Ink  ...................  654 

On  a  Circle      .............  m  G54 

On  a  Pen    .............     !    !    !     !    !  655 

A  Fan    ...................  65G 

On  a  Cannon  ............  ^  g5g 

On  the  Five  Senses  ..........  t  55^ 

On  Snow     ...........  G5Y 

On  a  Candle    ............  g5g 

On  a  Corkscrew   ..............          m  553 

On  the  Same 


...........          ..  660 

On  the  Vowels    .............  661 

On  a  Pah-  of  Dice     ..........  .*  661 

On  a  Shadow  in  a  Glass    .........  QQI 

On  Time 


LIST  OF  SOURCES 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO    MY   EMPTY   PURSE. 

CHAUCER. 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  none  other  wight, 

Complain  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere ; 

I  am  sorry  now  that  ye  be  light, 

For,  certes,  ye  now  make  me  heavy  chcre ; 

Me  were  as  lefe  be  laid  upon  a  bere, 

For  which  unto  your  mercy  thus  I  crie, 

Be  heavy  againe,  or  els  mote  I  die. 

Now  vouchsafe  this  day  or  it  be  night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blissful  sowne  may  here, 
Or  see  your  color  like  the  sunne  bright, 
That  of  yellowness  had  never  pere ; 
Ye  are  my  life,  ye  be  my  hertes  stere, 
Queen  of  comfort  and  of  good  companie, 
Be  heavy  again,  or  else  mote  I  die. 

Now  purse,  thou  art  to  me  my  lives  light, 
And  saviour,  as  downe  in  this  world  here, 
Out  of  this  towne  helpe  me  by  your  might, 
Sith  that  you  will  not  be  my  treasure, 
For  I  am  slave  as  nere  as  any  frere, 
But  I  pray  unto  your  curtesie, 
Be  heavy  again,  or  els  mote  I  die. 


TO    CHLOE. 

AN   APOLOGY   FOR   GOING  INTO   THE   COUNTRY. 

PETER  PINDAR. 

CHLOE,  we  must  not  always  be  in  heaven, 
For  ever  toying,  ogling,  kissing,  billing ; 

The  joys  for  which  I  thousands  would  have  given, 
Will  presently  be  scarcely  worth  a  shilling. 


22  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thy  neck  is  fairer  than  the  Alpine  snows, 

And,  sweetly  swelling,  beats  the  down  of  doves; 

Thy  cheek  of  health,  a  rival  to  the  rose ; 

Thy  pouting  lips,  the  throne  of  all  the  loves  ; 

Yet,  though  thus  beautiful  beyond  expression, 

That  beauty  fadeth  by  too  much  possession. 

Economy  in  love  is  peace  to  nature, 
Much  like  economy  in  worldly  matter  ; 
We  should  be  prudent,  never  live  too  fast ; 
Profusion  will  not,  can  not,  always  last. 

Lovers  are  really  spendthrifts — 't  is  a  shame — 
Nothing  their  thoughtless,  wild  career  can  tame, 

Till  penury  stares  them  in  the  face  ; 
And  when  they  find  an  empty  purse, 
Grown  calmer,  wiser,  how  the  fault  they  curse, 

And,  limping,  look  with  such  a  sneaking  grace ! 
Job's  war-horse  fierce,  his  neck  with  thunder  hung, 
Sunk  to  an  humble  hack  that  carries  dung. 

Smell  to  the  queen  of  flowers,  the  fragrant  rose — 
Smell  twenty  times — and  then,  my  dear,  thy  nose 
Will  tell  thee  (not  so  much  for  scent  athirst) 
The  twentieth  drank  less  flavor  than  the  first. 

Love,  doubtless,  is  the  sweetest  of  all  fellows ; 

Yet  often  should  the  little  god  retire — 
Absence,  dear  Chloe,  is  a  pair  of  bellows, 

That  keeps  alive  the  sacred  fire. 


TO    A    FLY, 

TAKEN   OUT   OF   A   BOWL   OF   PUNCH. 

PETER    TINDAR. 

AH  !  poor  intoxicated  little  knave, 

Now  senseless,  floating  on  the  fragrant  wave; 

Why  not  content  the  cakes  alone  to  munch  ?  f 

Dearly  thou  pay'st  for  buzzing  round  the  bowl ; 
Lost  to  the  world,  thou  busy  sweet-lipped  soul — 

Thus  Death,  as  well  as  Pleasure,  dwells  with  Punch. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  23 

Now  let  me  take  thee  out,  and  moralize — 
Thus  't  is  with  mortals,  as  it  is  with  flies, 

Forever  hankering  after  Pleasure's  cup  : 
Though  Fate,  with  all  his  legions,  be  at  hand, 
The  beasts,  the  draught  of  Circe  can't  withstand, 

But  in  goes  every  nose — they  must,  will  sup. 

Mad  are  the  passions,  as  a  colt  untamed ! 

When  Prudence  mounts  their  backs  to  ride  them  mild, 
They  fling,  they  snort,  they  foam,  they  rise  inflamed, 

Insisting  on  their  own  sole  will  so  wild. 

Gadsbud !  my  buzzing  friend,  thou  art  not  dead ; 
The  Fates,  so  kind,  have  not  yet  snapped  thy  thread ; 
By  heavens,  thou  mov'st  a  leg,  and  now  its  brother. 
And  kicking,  lo,  again,  thou  mov'st  another! 

And  now  thy  little  drunken  eyes  unclose, 
And  now  thou  feelest  for  thy  little  nose, 

And,  finding  it,  thou  rubbest  thy  two  hands 
Much  as  to  say,  "  I  'm  glad  I  'm  here  again." 
And  well  mayest  thou  rejoice — 'tis  very  plain, 

That  near  wert  thou  to  Death's  unsocial  lands. 

And  now  thou  rollest  on  thy  back  about, 
Happy  to  find  thyself  alive,  no  doubt — 

Now  turnest — on  the  table  making  rings ; 
Now  crawling,  forming  a  wet  track, 
Now  shaking  the  rich  liquor  from  thy  back, 

Now  fluttering  nectar  from  thy  silken  win^s  : 

Now  standing  on  thy  head,  thy  strength  to  find, 
And  poking  out  thy  small,  long  legs  behind ; 
And  now  thy  pinions  dost  thou  briskly  ply; 
Preparing  now  to  leave  me — farewell,  fly ! 

Go,  join  thy  brothers  on  yon  sunny  board, 
And  rapture  to  thy  family  afford — 

There  wilt  thou  meet  a  mistress,  or  a  wife, 
That  saw  thee  drunk,  drop  senseless  in  the  stream  ; 
Who  gave,  perhaps,  the  wide-resounding  scream, 

And  now  sits  groaning  for  thy  precious  life. 


24  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yes,  go  and  carry  comfort  to  thy  friends, 
And  wisely  tell  them  thy  imprudence  ends. 

Let  buns  and  sugar  for  the  future  charm  ; 

These  will  delight,  and  feed,  and  work  no  harm- 
While  Punch,  the  grinning,  merry  imp  of  sin, 

Invites  th'  unwary  wanderer  to  a  kiss, 

Smiles  in  his  face,  as  though  he  meant  him  bliss, 
Then,  like  an  alligator,  drags  him  in. 


MAN    MAY    BE    HAPPY. 

PETER  PINDAR. 

"  MAN  may  be  happy,  if  he  will :" 
I  've  said  it  often,  and  I  think  so  still; 

Doctrine  to  make  the  million  stare ! 
Know  then,  each  mortal  is  an  actual  Jove  ; 
Can  brew  what  weather  he  shall  most  approve, 

Or  wind,  or  calm,  or  foul,  or  fair. 

But  here  's  the  mischief— man's  an  ass,  I  say ; 

Too  fond  of  thunder,  lightning,  storm,  and  rain  ; 
He  hides  the  charming,  cheerful  ray 

That  spreads  a  smile  o'er  hill  and  plain ! 
Dark,  he  must  court  the  skull,  and  spade,  and  shroud— 
The  mistress  of  his  soul  must  be  a  cloud  ! 

Who  told  him  that  he  must  be  cursed  on  earth  ? 

The  God  of  Nature  ?— No  such  tiling; 
Heaven  whispered  him,  the  moment  of  his  birth, 

"Don't  cry,  my  lad,  but  dance  and  sing; 
Don't  be  too  wise,  and  be  an  ape: — 
In  colors  let  thy  soul  be  dressed,  not  crape. 

"  Eoses  shall  smooth  life's  journey,  and  adorn  ; 
Yet  mind  me — if,  through  want  of  grace, 
Thou  mean'st  to  fling  the  blessing  in  my  face, 

Thou  hast  full  leave  to  tread  upon  a  thorn." 

Yet  some  there  are,  of  men,  I  think  the  worst, 
Poor  imps  I  unhappy,  if  they  can't  be  cursed— 


MISCELLANEOUS.  25 

Forever  brooding  over  Misery's  eggs, 
As  though  life's  pleasure  were  a  deadly  sin ; 
Mousing  forever  for  a  gin 

To  catch  their  happiness  by  the  legs. 

Even  at  a  dinner  some  will  be  unblessed, 
However  good  the  viands,  and  well  dressed : 

They  always  come  to  table  with  a  scowl, 
Squint  with  a  face  of  verjuice  o'er  each  dish, 
Fault  the  poor  flesh,  and  quarrel  with  the  fish, 

Curse  cook  and  wife,  and,  loathing,  eat  and  growl 

A  cart-load,  lo,  their  stomachs  steal, 
Yet  swear  they  can  not  make  a  meal. 
I  like  not  the  blue-devil-hunting  crew  ! 

I  hate  to  drop  the  discontented  jaw ! 
0  let  me  Nature's  simple  smile  pursue, 

And  pick  even  pleasure  from  a  straw. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    TOOTHACHE. 

WRITTEN  WHEN  THE  AUTHOR  WAS   GRIEVOUSLY    TORMENTED  BY  THAT 
DISORDER. 

ROBERT   BURNS. 

MY  curse  upon  thy  venom'd  stang, 
That  shoots  my  tortur'd  gums  alang  ; 
And  thro'  my  lugs  gies  mony  a  twang, 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  cholic  squeezes ; 
Our  neighbors'  sympathy  may  ease  us, 

Wi'  pitying  moan ; 
But  thee — thou  hell  o'  a'  diseases, 

Aye  mocks  our  groan ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle  ! 
I  kick  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  micklc', 
2 


26  MISCELLANEOUS. 

As  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 
To  see  me  loup ; 

While,  raving  mad,  I  wish  a  heckle 
Were  in  their  doup. 

0'  a'  the  num'rous  human  dools, 

111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty-stools, 

Or  worthy  friends  rak'd  i'  the  mools, 

Sad  sight  to  see  ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves,  or  fash  o'  fools, 

Thou  bear'st  the  gree. 

Where'er  that  place  be  priests  ca'  hell, 
Whence  a'  the  tones  o'  mis'ry  yell, 
And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfu'  raw, 
Thou,  Toothache,  surely  bear'st  the  bell, 

Amang  them  a' ; 

0  thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel, 
That  gars  the  notes  of  discord  squeel, 
'Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  ; — 
Gie  a'  the  faes  o'  Scotland's  weal 

A  towmond's  Toothache ! 


THE    PIG. 

A  COLLOQUIAL  POEM. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY 

JACOB  !  I  do  not  like  to  see  thy  nose 
Turn'd  up  in  scornful  curve  at  yonder  pig, 
It  would  be  well,  my  friend,  if  we,  like  him, 
Were  perfect  in  our  kind  1  .  .  And  why  despise 
The  sow-born  gruntcr  ?  .  .  He  is  obstinate, 
Thou  answerest ;  ugly,  and  the  filthiest  beast 
That  banquets  upon  ofifal.  .  .  .  Now  I  pray  you 
Hear  the  pig's  counsel. 

Is  he  obstinate  ? 

We  must  not,  Jacob,  be  deceived  by  words  ; 
We  must  not  take  them  as  unheeding  hands 


MISCELLANEOUS.  27 

Receive  base  money  at  the  current  worth, 

But  with  a  just  suspicion  try  their  sound, 

And  in  the  even  balance  weigh  them  well. 

See-  now  to  what  this  obstinacy  comes  : 

A  poor,  mistreated,  democratic  beast, 

He  knows  that  his  unmerciful  drivers  seek 

Their  profit,  and  not  his.     He  hath  not  learned 

That  pigs  were  made  for  man,  .  .  born  to  be  brawn' d 

And  baconized  :  that  he  must  please  to  give 

Just  what  his  gracious  masters  please  to  take ; 

Perhaps  his  tusks,  the  weapons  Nature  gave 

For  self-defense,  the  general  privilege  ; 

Perhaps,  .  .  hark,  Jacob  !  dost  thou  hear  that  horn  ? 

Woe  to  the  young  posterity  of  Pork ! 

Their  enemy  is  at  hand. 

Again.     Thou  say'st 
The  pig  is  ugly.     Jacob,  look  at  him  ! 
Those  eyes  have  taught  the  lover  flattery. 
His  face,  .  .  nay,  Jacob  1  Jacob  !  were  it  fair 
To  judge  a  lady  in  her  dishabille  ? 
Fancy  it  dressed,  and  with  saltpeter  rouged. 
Behold  his  tail,  my  friend ;  with  curls  like  that 
The  wanton  hop  marries  her  stately  spouse  : 
So  crisp  in  beauty  Amoretta's  hair 
Rings  round  her  lover's  soul  the  chains  of  love. 
And  what  is  beauty,  but  the-  aptitude 
Of  parts  harmonious  ?     Give  thy  fancy  scope, 
And  thou  wilt  find  that  no  imagined  change 
Can  beautify  this  beast.     Place  at  his  end 
The  starry  glories  of  the  peacock's  pride, 
Give  him  the  swan's  white  breast;  for  his  horn-hoofs 
Shape  such  a  foot  and  ankle  as  the  waves 
Crowded  in  eager  rivalry  to  kiss 
When  Venus  from  the  enamor'd  sea  arose ;  .  . 
Jacob,  thou  canst  but  make  a  monster  of  him ! 
All  alteration  man  could  think,  would  mar 
His  pig-perfection. 

The  last  charge,  .  .  he  lives 
A  dirty  life.     Here  I  could  shelter  him 
With  noble  and  right-reverend  precedents, 
And  show  by  sanction  of  authority 
That  'tis  a  very  honorable  thing 


28  MISCELLANEOUS. 

To  thrive  by  dirty  ways.     But  let  me  rest 

On  better  ground  the  unanswerable  defense. 

The  pig  is  a  philosopher,  who  knows 

No  prejudice.     Dirt?  .  .  Jacob,  what  is  dirt? 

If  matter,  .  .  why  the  delicate  dish  that  tempts 

An  o'ergorged  epicure  to  the  last  morsel 

That  stuffs  him  to  the  throat-gates,  is  no  more. 

If  matter  be  not,  but  as  sages  say, 

Spirit  is  all,  and  all  things  visible 

Are  one,  the  infinitely  modified, 

Think,  Jacob,  what  that  pig  is,  and  the  mire 

Wherein  he  stands  knee-deep ! 

And  there  !  the  breeze 
Pleads  with  me,  and  has  won  thee  to  a  smile 
That  speaks  conviction.     O'er  yon  blossom'd  field 
Of  beans  it  came,  and  thoughts  of  bacon  rise. 


SNUFF. 

ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

A  DELICATE  pinch  !  oh  how  it  tingles  up 

The  titillated  nose,  and  fills  the^eyes 

And  breast,  till  in  one  comfortable  sneeze 

The  full-collected  pleasure  bursts  at  lust ! 

Most  rare  Columbus !  thou  shalt  be  for  this 

The  only  Christopher  in  my  calendar. 

Why,  but  for  thee  the  uses  of  the  nose 

Were  half  unknown,  and  its  capacity 

Of  joy.     The  summer  gale  that  from  the  heath, 

At  midnoon  glowing  with  the  golden  gorse, 

Bears  its  balsamic  odor,  but  provokes 

Not  satisfies  the  sense ;  and  all  the  flowers, 

That  with  their  unsubstantial  fragrance  tempt 

And  disappoint,  bloom  for  so  short  a  space, 

That  half  the,  year  the  nostrils  would  keep  Lent, 

But  that  the  kind  tobacconist  admits 

No  winter  in  his  work;  when  Nature  sleeps 

His  wheels  roll  on,  and  still  administer 

A  plenitude  of  joy,  a  tangible  smell 

What  are  Peru  and  those  Golcondan  mines 
To  thee,  Virginia  ?  miserable  realms, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  29 

The  produce  of  inhuman  toil,  they  send 

Gold  for  the  greedy,  jewels  for  the  vain. 

But  thine  are  common  comforts!  .  .  To  omit 

Pipe-panegyric  and  tobacco-praise, 

Think  what  a  general  joy  the  snuff-box  gives, 

Europe,  and  far  above  Pizarro's  name 

Write  Raleigh  in  thy  records  of  renown ! 

Him  let  the  school-boy  bless  if  he  behold 

His  master's  box  produced,  for  when  he  sees 

The  thumb  and  finger  of  authority 

Stuffed  up  the  nostrils :  when  hat,  head,  and  wig 

Shake  all ;  when  on  the  waistcoat  black,  brown  dust, 

From  the  oft-reiterated  pinch  profuse 

Profusely  scattered,  lodges  in  its  folds, 

And  part  on  the  magistral  table  lights, 

Part  on  the  open  book,  soon  blown  away, 

Full  surely  soon  shall  then  the  brow  severe 

Relax  ;  and  from  vituperative  lips 

Words  that  of  birch  remind  not,  sounds  of  praise, 

And  jokes  that  must  be  laughed  at  shall  proceed. 


A    FAREWELL    TO    TOBACCO. 

CHARLES   LAMB. 

MAY  the  Babylonish  curse 

Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I  can  a  passage  see 

In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a  fit  expression  find, 

Or  a  language  to  my  mind, 

(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant) 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  GREAT  PLANT  ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 

Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate : 

For  I  hate,  yet  love  thee,  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I  show, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 

A  constraint  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 

More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 


30  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine ; 
Sorcerer,  that  mak'st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'G-ainst  women :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  way, 
While  thou  suck'st  the  lab'ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses  or  than  death, 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us, 
That  our  worst  foes  can  not  find  us, 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us ; 
While  each  man,  through  thy  height'ning  steam, 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem, 
And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features, 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 
Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Greryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do, 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 
Some  few  vapors  thou  may'st  raise, 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart 


MISCELLANEOUS.  31 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born. 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sov'reign  to  the  brain  ; 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Roses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent 

Stiuking'st  of  the  stinking  kind, 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foison, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue ; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
'Twas  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee ; 
None  e'er  prosper' d  who  defamed  thee  ; 
Irony  .ill,  and  feign'd  abuse, 
Such  as  perplex'd  lovers  use, 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike, 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike ; 


32  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that's  evil, 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more ; 
Friendly  Trait'ress,  loving  Foe — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 
Borders  so  upon  excess, 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constraint  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow 's  at  the  height, 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darling  thing  whatever, 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 
Q-uiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee. 
For  thy  sake,  TOBACCO,  I 
Would  do  any  thing  but  die, 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  title  of  her  state, 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced, 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 
A  right  Katherine  of  Spain ; 
And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  33 

Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 
Am  debarr'd  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I  may  cateh 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 
Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife ; 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces; 
And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 
An  unconquer'd  Canaanite. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  SWIMMING  FROM  SESTOS  TO 
ABYDOS. 

BYRON. 

If,  in  the  month  of  dark  December, 

Leander,  who  was  nightly  wont 
(What  maid  will  not  the  tale  remember  ?) 

To  cross  thy  stream  broad  Hellespont! 

If,  when  the  wint'ry  tempest  roar'd, 

He  sped  to  Hero  nothing  loth, 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  pour'd, 

Fair  Venus !  how  I  pity  both  ! 

For  me,  degenerate,  modern  wretch, 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 

My  dripping  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I  've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  crossed  the  rapid  tide, 

According  to  the  doubtful  story, 
To  woo — and — Lord  knows  what  beside, 

And  swam  for  Love,  as  I  for  Glory ; 

'T  were  hard  to  say  who  fared  the  best : 

Sad  mortals !  thus  the  gods  still  plague  you  I 

He  lost  his  labor,  I  my  jest ; 

For  he  was  drowned,  and  I  've  the  ague 
2* 


34  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE   LISBON   PACKET. 

BYRON 

Huzza !  Hodgson,  we  are  going, 

Our  embargo  's  off  at  last ; 
Favorable  breezes  blowing 

Bend  the  canvas  o'er  the  mast. 
From  aloft  the  signal 's  streaming, 
Hark !  the  farewell  gun  is  fired  ; 
Women  screeching,  tars  blaspheming, 
Tell  us  that  our  time 's  expired. 
Here 's  a  rascal 
Come  to  task  all, 
Prying  from  the  custom-house ; 
Trunks  unpacking, 
Cases  cracking, 
Not  a  corner  for  a  mouse 
'Scapes  unsearched  amid  the  racket, 
Ere  we  sail  on  board  the  Packet 

Now  our  boatmen  quit  their  mooring, 

And  all  hands  must  ply  the  oar  ; 
Baggage  from  the  quay  is  lowering, 

We  're  impatient — push  from  shore. 
"  Have  a  care!  that  case  holds  liquor — 
Stop  the  boat — I  'm  sick — 0  Lord  !" 
"  Sick,  ma'am,  damme,  you  '11  be  sicker 
Ere  you  've  been  an  hour  on  board." 
Thus  are  screaming 
Men  and  women, 
Q-emmen,  ladies,  servants,  Jacks ; 
Here  entangling, 
All  are  wrangling, 
Stuck  together  close  as  wax. — 
Such  the  general  noise  and  racket, 
Ere  we  reach  the  Lisbon  Packet. 

Now  we  've  reached  her,  lo  !  the  captain, 
Gallant  Kid,  commands  the  crew; 

Passengers  their  berths  are  clapped  in, 
Some  to  grumble,  some  to  spew. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  35 

"  Hey  day !  call  you  that  a  cabin  ? 

Why,  'tis  hardly  three  feet  square ; 
Not  enough  to  stow  Queen  Mab  in — 
Who  the  deuce  can  harbor  there  ?" 
"Who,  sir?  plenty- 
Nobles  twenty 
Did  at  once  my  vessel  fill." — 
"  Did  they  ?  Jesus, 
How  you  squeeze  us  ! 
Would  to  God  they  did  so  still : 
Then  I  'd  'scape  the  heat  and  racket 
Of  the  good  ship  Lisbon  Packet." 


Fletcher  1  Murray !  Bob  !  where  are  you  ? 

Stretched  along  the  decks  like  logs — 
Bear  a  hand,  you  jolly  tar,  you ! 

Here  's  a  rope's  end  for  the  dogs. 
Hobhouse  muttering  fearful  curses, 
As  the  hatchway  down  he  rolls, 
Now  his  breakfast,  now  his  verses, 
Vomits  forth — and  damns  our  souls. 
"  Here 's  a  stanza 
On  Braganza — 

Help !"— "  A  couplet  ?"— "  No,  a  cup 
Of  warm  water — " 
"  What 's  the  matter  ?" 
"  Zounds  1  my  liver 's  coming  up ; 
I  shall  not  survive  the  racket 
Of  this  brutal  Lisbon  Packet," 


Now  at  length  we  're  off  for  Turkey, 

Lord  knows  when  we  shall  come  back  I 
Breezes  foul  and  tempests  murky 

May  unship  us  in  a  crack. 
But,  since  life  at  most  a  jest  is, 

As  philosophers  allow, 
Still  to  laugh  by  far  the  best  is, 

Then  laugh  on — as  I  do  now. 
Laugh  at  all  things, 
Great  and  small  things, 


36  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Sick  or  well,  at  sea  or  shore; 
While  we  're  quaffing, 
Let 's  have  laughing — 
Who  the  devil  cares  for  more  ? — 
Some  good  wine !  and  who  would  lack  it, 
Even  on  board  the  Lisbon  Packet  ? 


TO    FANNY. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

NEVER  mind  how  the  pedagogue  proses, 

You  want  not  antiquity's  stamp, 
The  lip  that's  so  scented  by  roses, 

Oh !  never  must  smell  of  the  lamp. 

Old  Chloe,  whose  withering  kisses 

Have  long  set  the  loves  at  defiance, 
Now  done  with  the  science  of  blisses, 

May  fly  to  the  blisses  of  science  ! 

Young  Sappho,  for  want  of  employments, 

Alone  o'er  her  Ovid  may  melt, 
Condemned  but  to  read  of  enjoyments, 

Which  wiser  Corinna  had  felt 

But  for  you  to  be  buried  in  books — 

Oh,  FANNY  !  they're  pitiful  sages ; 
Who  could  not  in  one  of  your  looks 

Read  more  than  in  millions  of  pages ! 

Astronomy  finds  hi  your  eye 

Better  light  than  she  studies  above, 
And  music  must  borrow  your  sigh 

As  the  melody  dearest  to  love. 

In  Ethics — 'tis  you  that  can  check, 

In  a  minute,  their  doubts  and  their  quarrels, 

Oh !  show  but  that  mole  on  your  neck, 
And  'twill  soon  put  an  end  to  their  morals. 

Your  Arithmetic  only  can  trip 

When  to  kiss  and  to  count  you  endeavor  ; 
But  eloquence  glows  on  your  lip 

When  you  swear  that  you'll  love  me  forever. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  37 

Thus  you  see  what  a  brilliant  alliance 

Of  arts  is  assembled  in  you — 
A  course  of  more  exquisite  science 

Man  never  need  wish  to  go  through  I 

And,  oh ! — if  a  fellow  like  me 

May  confer  a  diploma  of  hearts, 
With  my  lip  thus  I  seal  your  degree, 

My  divine  little  Mistress  of  Artsl 


YOUNG    JESSICA. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

YOUNG  JESSICA  sat  all  the  day, 

In  love-dreams  languishingly  pining, 
Her  needle  bright  neglected  lay, 

Like  truant  genius  idly  shining. 
Jessy,  'tis  in  idle  hearts 

That  love  and  mischief  are  most  nimble  ; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimble. 

• 

A  child  who  with  a  magnet  play'd, 

And  knew  its  winning  ways  so  wily, 
The  magnet  near  the  needle  laid, 

And  laughing,  said,  "  We'll  steal  it  slily." 
The  needle,  having  naught  to  do, 

Was  pleased  to  let  the  magnet  wheedle, 
Till  closer  still  the  tempter  drew, 

And  off,  at  length,  eloped  the  needle. 

Now,  had  this  needle  turn'd  its  eye 

To  some  gay  reticule's  construction, 
It  ne'er  had  stray'd  from  duty's  tie, 

Nor  felt  a  magnet's  sly  seduction. 
Girls  would  you  keep  tranquil  hearts, 

Your  snowy  fingers  must  be  nimble ; 
The  safest  shield  against  the  darts 

Of  Cupid,  is  Minerva's  thimble. 


38  MISCELLANEOUS. 


RINGS    AND    SEALS. 

THOMAS    MOORE. 

"  Gro  !"  said  the  angry  weeping  maid, 
"  The  charm  is  broken ! — once  betray' d, 
Oh !  never  can  my  heart  rely 
On  word  or  look,  on  oath  or  sigh. 
Take  back  the  gifts,  so  sweetly  given, 
With  promis'd  faith  and  vows  to  heaven ; 
That  little  ring,  which,  night  and  morn, 
With  wedded  truth  my  hand  hath  worn ; 
That  seal  which  oft,  in  moments  blest, 
Thou  hast  upon  my  lip  imprest, 
And  sworn  its  dewy  spring  should  be 
A  fountain  seal'd  for  only  thee  ! 
Take,  take  them  back,  the  gift  and  vow, 
All  sullied,  lost,  and  hateful,  now !" 

I  took  the  ring — the  seal  I  took, 
While  oh  1  her  every  tear  and  look 
Were  such  as  angels  look  and  shed, 
When  man  is  by  the  world  misled ! 
G-ently  I  whisper' d,  "FANNY,  dear! 
Not  half  thy  lover's  gifts  are  here : 
Say,  where  are  all  the  seals  he  gave 
To  every  ringlet's  jetty  wave, 
And  where  is  every  one  he  printed    . 
Upon  that  lip,  so  ruby-tinted — 
Seals  of  the  purest  gem  of  bliss, 
Oh !  richer,  softer,  far  than  this  ! 

"  And  then  the  ring — my  love  !  recall 
How  many  rings,  delicious  all, 
His  arms  around  that  neck  hath  twisted, 
Twining  warmer  far  than  this  did ! 
Where  are  they  all,  so  sweet,  so  many  ? 
Oh !  dearest,  give  back  all,  if  any !" 

While  thus  I  murmur'd,  trembling  too 
Lest  all  the  nymph  had  vow'd  was  true, 
I  saw  a  smile  relenting  rise 
'Mid  the  moist,  nzure  of  her  eyes, 


MISCELLANEOUS.  30 

Like  day-light  o'er  a  sea  of  blue, 
While  yet  the  air  is  dim  with  dew ! 
She  let  her  cheek  repose  on  mine, 
She  let  my  arms  around  her  twine — 
Oh !  who  can  tell  the  bliss  one  feels 
In  thus  exchanging  rin^s  and  seals ! 


NETS    AND    CAGES. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

COME,  listen  to  my  story,  while 

Your  needle's  task  you  ply  ; 
At  what  I  sing  some  maids  will  smile, 

While  some,  perhaps,  may  sigh. 
Though  Love's  the  theme,  and  Wisdom  blames 

Such  florid  songs  as  ours, 
Yet  Truth,  sometimes,  like  eastern  dames, 

Can  speak  her  thoughts  by  flowers. 
Then  listen,  maids,  come  listen,  while 

Your  needle's  task  you  ply  j 
At  what  I  sing  there's  some  may  smile, 

While  some,  perhaps,  will  sigh. 

Young  Cloe,  bent  on  catching  Loves, 

Such  nets  had  learn'd  to  frame, 
That  none,  in  all  our  vales  and  groves, 

Ere  caught  so  much  small  game : 
While  gentle  Sue,  less  given  to  roam, 

When  Cloe's  nets  were  taking 
These  flights  of  birds,  sat  still  at  home, 

One  small,  neat  Love-cage  making. 
Come,  listen,  maids,  etc. 

Much  Cloe  laugh'd  at  Susan's  task; 

But  mark  how  tilings  went  on  : 
These  light-caught  Loves,  ere  you  could  ask 

Their  name  and  age,  were  gone ! 
So  weak  poor  Cloe's  nets  were  wove, 

That,  though  she  charm'd  into  them 
New  game  each  hour,  the  youngest  Love 

Was  able  to  break  through  them. 
Come,  listen,  maids,  etc. 


40  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Meanwhile,  young  Sue,  whose  cage  was  wrought 

Of  bars  too  strong  to  sever, 
One  Love  with  golden  pinions  caught, 

And  caged  him  there  forever; 
Instructing  thereby,  all  coquettes, ' 

Whate'er  their  looks  or  ages, 
That,  though  'tis  pleasant  weaving  Nets, 

'Tis  wiser  to  make  Cages. 
Thus,  maidens,  thus  do  I  beguile 

The  task  your  fingers  ply — 
May  all  who  hear,  like  Susan  smile, 

Ah !  not  like  Cloe  sigh ! 


SALAD. 

SYDNEY    SMITH. 

To  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 

The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boiled  eggs  ; 

Two  boiled  potatoes,  passed  through  kitchen-sieve, 

Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give  ; 

Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 

And,  half-suspected,  animate  the  whole. 

Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 

Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon ; 

But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs^a  fault, 

To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt. 

And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavored  compound  toss 

A  magic  soup-spoon  of  anchovy  sauce. 

Oh,  green  and  glorious  !     Oh,  herbaceous  treat ! 

'T  would  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat  ; 

Back  to  the  world  he  'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad  bowl ! 

Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

Fate  can  not  harm  me,  I  have  dined  to-day  I 


MISCELLANEOUS.  4] 

MY    LETTERS. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 
"Litera  scrlpta  manet." — OLD  Svw. 

ANOTHER  mizzling,  drizzling  day  ! 

Of  clearing  up  there  's  no  appearance ; 
So  I  '11  sit  down  without  delay, 

And  here,  at  least,  I  '11  make  a  clearance  ! 

Oh  ne'er  "  on  such  a  day  as  this," 

Would  Dido  with  her  woes  oppressed 
Have  woo'd  JEneas  back  to  bliss, 

Or  Trolius  gone  to  hunt  for  Cressid  I 

No,  they  'd  have  stay'd  at  home,  like  me, 

And  popp'd  their  toes  upon  the  fender, 
And  drank  a  quiet  cup  of  tea : 

On  days  like  this  one  can't  be  tender. 

So,  Molly,  draw  that  basket  nigher, 

And  put  my  desk  upon  the  table — 
Bring  that  portfolio — stir  the  fire — 

Now  off  as  fast  as  you  are  able ! 

First  here  's  a  card  from  Mrs.  Grimes, 

"  A  ball !" — she  knows  that  I  'm  no  dancer — 

That  woman 's  ask'd  me  fifty  times, 
And  yet  I  never  send  an  answer. 

"  DEAR  JACK, — 

Just  lend  me  twenty  pounds, 
Till  Monday  next,  when  I  '11  return  it. 
Yours  truly, 

HENRY  GIBBS." 
Why  Z— ds ! 
I  Ve  seen  the  man  but  twice — here,  burn  it. 

One  from  my  cousin  Sophy  Daw — 

Full  of  Aunt  Margery's  distresses ; 
"  The  cat  has  kitten'd  '  in  the  draw,' 

And  ruin'd  two  branvnew  silk  dresses." 


42  MISCELLANEOUS. 

From  Sam,  "  The  Chancellor's  motto/' — nay 
Confound  his  puns,  he  knows  I  hate  'em ; 

"  Pro  Rege,  Lege,  Grege,"— Ay, 

•'  For  King  read  Mob  1"     Brougham's  old  erratum. 

From  Seraphina  Price — "  At  two" — 

"  Till  then  I  can't,  my  dearest  John,  stir ;'' 

Two  more  because  I  did  not  go, 

Beginning  "  Wretch"  and  "Faithless  Monster  1" 

"  DEAR  SIR,— 

"  This  morning  Mrs.  P 

Who 's  doing  quite  as  well  as  may  be, 

Presented  me  at  half  past  three 
Precisely,  with  another  baby. 

"  We  '11  name  it  John,  and  know  with  pleasure 
You  '11  stand" — Five  guineas  more,  confound  it ! — 

I  wish  they  'd  call  it  Nebuchadnezzar, 

Or  thrown  it  in  the  Thames  and  drown' d  it. 

What  have  we  next  ?     A  civil  dun  : 

"  John  Brown  would  take  it  as  a  favor" — 

Another,  and  a  surlier  one, 

"  I  can't  put  up  with  sich  behavior." 

"  Bill  so  long  standing," — "  quite  tired  out," — 
"Must  sit  down  to  insist  on  payment," 

"  Called  ten  times," — Here  's  a- fuss  about 
A  few  coats,  waistcoat?,  and  small  raiment! 

For  once  I'll  send  an  answer,  and  in 
form  Mr.  Snip  he  need  n't  "  call"  so  ; 

But  when  his  bill 's  as  "  tired  of  standing" 
As  he  is,  beg  't  will  "  sit  down  also." 

This  from  my  rich  old  Uncle  Ned, 
Thanking  me  for  my  annual  present ; 

And  saying  he  last  Tuesday  wed 

His  cook-maid,  Molly — vastly  pleasant ! 

An  ill-spelt  note  from  Tom  at  school, 
Begging  I  '11  let  him  learn  the  fiddle  ; 

Another  from  that  precious  fool, 
Miss  Pyefinch,  with  a  stupid  riddle. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

• "  D'  ye  give  it  up  ?"     Indeed  I  do ! 

Confound  those  antiquated  minxes ; 
I  won't  play  "  Billy  Black"  to  a  "  Blue," 

Or  (Edipus  to  such  old  sphinxes. 

A  note  sent  up  from  Kent  to  show  me, 

Left  with  my  bailiff,  Peter  King ; 
"'I  '11  burn  them  precious  stacks  down,  blow  me  1 

*'  Yours  most  sincerely, 

"  CAPTAIN  SWING." 

Four  begging  letters  with  petitions, 

One  from  my  sister  Jane,  to  pray 
I  '11  execute  a  few  commissions" 

In  Bond-street,  "  when  I  go  that  way." 

"  And  buy  at  PearsalTs  in  the  city 

Twelve  skeins  of  silk  for  netting  purses : 

Color  no  matter,  so  it's  pretty ; — 

Two  hundred  pens" — two  hundred  curses  1 

From  Mistress  Jones :  "My  little  Billy 

Goes  up  his  schooling  to  begin, 
Will  you  just  step  to  Piccadilly, 

And  meet  him  when  the  coach  comes  in  ? 

"  And  then,  perhaps,  you  will  as  well,  see 
The  poor  dear  fellow  safe  to  school 

At  Dr.  Smith's  in  Little  Chelsea  !" 
Heaven  send  he  flog  the  little  fool ! 

From  Lady  Snooks :  "  Dear  Sir,  you  know 
You  promised  me  last  week  a  Rebus ; 

A  something  smart  and  apropos, 

For  my  new  Album  ?" — Aid  me,  Phoebus  ! 

"  My  first  is  folio w'd  by  my  second ; 

Yet  should  my  first  my  second  see, 
A  dire  mishap  it  would  be  reckon'd, 

And  sadly  shock' d  my  first  would  be. 

"  Were  I  but  what  my  whole  implies, 
And  pass'd  by  chance  across  your  portal  • 

You'd  cry  '  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ? 
I  never  saw  so  queer  a  mortal !' 


44  MISCELLANEOUS. 

"  For  then  my  head  would  not  be  on, 
My   arms  their  shoulders  must  abandon ; 

My  very  body  would  be  gone, 

I  should  not  have  a  leg  to  stand  on." 

Come  that's  dispatch' d — what  follows  ? — Stay 
"  Reform  demanded  by  the  nation ; 

Vote  for  Tagrag  and  Bobtail !"     Ay, 
By  Jove  a  blessed  Reformation  ! 

Jack,  clap  the  saddle  upon  Rose — 
Or  no  ! — the  filly — she's  the  fleeter ; 

The  devil  take  the  rain — here  goes, 
I'm  off — a  plumper  for  Sir  Peter ! 


THE    POPLAR. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 

AT,  here  stands  the  Poplar,  so  tall  and  so  stately, 
On  whose  tender  rind — 'twas  a  little  one  then — 

We  carved  her  initials ;  though  not  very  lately, 
We  think  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  ten. 

Yes,  here  is  the  Gr  which  proclaimed  G-eorgiana ; 

Our  heart's  empress  then ;  see,  'tis  grown  all  askew ; 
And  it's  not  without  grief  we  perforce  entertain  a 

Conviction,  it  now  looks  much  more  like  a  Q. 

This  should  be  the  great  D  too,  that  once  stood  for  Dobbin, 
Her  lov'd  patronymic — ah  I  can  it  be  so  ? 

Its  once  fair  proportions,  time,  too,  has  been  robbing ; 
A  D  ?— we  '11  be  Deed  if  it  isn't  an  0 ! 

Alas !  how  the  soul  sentimental  it  vexes, 

That  thus  on  our  labors  stern  Chronos  should  frown ; 

Should  change  our  soft  liquids  to  izzards  and  Xes, 
And  turn  true-love's  alphabet  all  upside  down ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  45 

SPRING. 

A     NEW     VERSION. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

M  Earn.  The  air  bites  shrewdly — it  is  very  cold. 
Hor.  It  is  a  nipping  and  eager  air." — HAMLET. 

COME,  gentle  Spring !  ethereal  mildness,  come  I" 
0 !  Thomson,  void  of  rhyme  as  well  as  reason, 

How  couldst  thou  thus  poor  human  nature  hum  ? 
There 's  no  such  season. 

The  Spring !  I  shrink  and  shudder  at  her  name  I 
For  why,  I  find  her  breath  a  bitter  bligliter ! 

And  suffer  from  her  blows  as  if  they  came 
From  Spring  the  Fighter. 

Her  praises,  then,  let  hardy  poets  sing, 

And  be  her  tuneful  laureates  and  upholders, 

Who  do  not  feel  as  if  they  had  a  Spring 
Poured  down  their  shoulders ! 

Let  others  eulogize  her  floral  shows; 

From  me  they  can  not  win  a  single  stanza. 
I  know  her  blooms  are  in  full  blow — and  so 's 

The  Influenza. 

Her  cowslips,  stocks,  and  lilies  of  the  vale, 

Her  honey-blossoms  that  you  hear  the  bees  at, 

Her  pansies,  daffodils,  and  primrose  pale, 
Are  things  I  sneeze  at ! 

Fair  is  the  vernal  quarter  of  the  year ! 

And  fair  its  early  buddings  and  its  blowings— 
But  just  suppose  Consumption's  seeds  appear 

With  othqj)  sowings ! 

For  me,  I  find,  when  eastern  winds  are  high, 

A  frigid,  not  a  genial  inspiration ; 
Nor  can,  like  Iron-Chested  Chubb,  defy 

An  inflammation. 


46  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Smitten  by  breezes  from  the  land  of  plague, 
To  me  all  vernal  luxuries  are  fables, 

0 !  where 's  the  Spring  in  a  rheumatic  leg, 
Stiff  as  a  table's  ? 

I  limp  in  agony — I  wheeze  and  cough ; 

And  quake  with  Ague,  that  great  Agitator ; 
Nor  dream,  before  July,  of  leaving  off 

My  Respirator. 

What  wonder  if  in  May  itself  I  lack 

A  peg  for  laudatory  verse  to  hang  on  ? — 

Spring,  mild  and  gentle !— yes,  a  Spring-heeled  Jack 
To  those  he  sprang  on. 

In  short,  whatever  panegyrics  lie 

In  fulsome  odes  too  many  to  be  cited, 

The  tenderness  of  Spring  is  all  my  eye, 
And  that  is  blighted  ! 


ODE. 

ON    A    DISTANT    PROSPECT    OY    CLAPHAM    ACADEMY. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

AH  me  !  those  old  familiar  bounds  ! 
That  classic  house,  those  classic  grounds, 

My  pensive  thought  recalls  ! 
What  tender  urchins  now  confine, 
What  little  captives  now  repine, 

Within  yon  irksome  walls  ! 


Ay,  that's  the  very  house  !  I 
Its  ugly  windows,  ten  a  row  ! 

Its  chimneys  in  the  rear  ! 
And  there  's  the  iron  rod  so  high, 
That  drew  the  thunder  from  the  sky 

And  turned  our  table-beer  I 


MISCELLANEOUS.  47 

There  I  was  birched  !  there  I  was  bred  ! 
There  like  a  little  Adam  fed 

Prom  Learning's  woeful  tree  ! 
The  weary  tasks  I  used  to  con ! — 
The  hopeless  leaves  I  wept  upon  ! — 

Most  fruitful  leaves  to  me ! 

The  summoned  class ! — the  awful  bow ! — 
I  wonder  who  is  master  now 

And  wholesome  anguish  sheds ! 
How  many  ushers  now  employs, 
How  many  maids  to  see  the  boys 

Have  nothing  in  their  heads  ! 

And  Mrs.  S  *  *  *  ?— Doth  she  abet 
(Like  Pallas  in  the  palor)  yet 

Some  favored  two  or  three — 
The  little  Crichtons  of  the  hour, 
Her  muffin-medals  that  devour, 

And  swill  her  prize — bohea? 

Ay,  there 's  the  playground !  there 's  the  lime, 
Beneath  whose  shade  in  summer's  prime 

So  wildly  I  have  read  ! — 
Who  sits  there  now,  and  skims  the  cream 
Of  young  Romance,  and  weaves  a  dream 

Of  Love  and  Cottage-bread  ? 

Who  struts  the  Randall  of  the  walk  ? 
Who  models  tiny  heads  in  chalk  ? 

Who  scoops  the  light  canoe  ? 
What  early  genius  buds  apace  ? 
Where 's  Poynter  ?  Harris  ?  Bowers  ?  Chase  V 

Hal  Baylis  ?  blithe  Carew  ? 

Alack !  they  're  gone — a  thousand  ways ! 
And  some  are  serving  in  "  the  Greys," 

And  some  have  perished  young ! — 
Jack  Harris  weds  his  second  wife ; 
Hal  Baylis  drives  the  wayne  of  life ; 

And  blithe  Carew — is  hung ! 


48  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Grave  Bowers  teaches  ABC 
To  Savages  at  Owhyee  ; 

Poor  Chase  is  with  the  worms ! — 
All  are  gone — the  olden  breed ! — 
New  crops  of  mushroom  boys  succeeds, 

"  And  push  us  from  our  forms!" 

Lo !  where  they  scramble  forth,  and  shout, 
And  leap,  and  skip,  and  mob  about, 

At  play  where  we  have  played! 
Some  hop,  some  run  (some  fall),  some  twine 
Their  crony  arms;  some  in  the  shine, 

And  some  are  in  the  shade ! 

Lo  there  what  mixed  conditions  run  ! 
The  orphan  lad ;  the  widow's  son ; 

And  Fortune's  favored  care — 
The  wealthy  born,  for  whom  she  hath 
Macadamized  the  future  path — 

The  nabob's  pampered  heir! 

Some  brightly  starred — some  evil  born — 
For  honor  some,  and  some  for  scorn — 

For  fair  or  foul  renown ! 
Good,  bad,  indifferent — none  they  lack ! 
Look,  here 's  a  white,  and  there 's  a  black ! 

And  there 's  a  Creole  brown ! 

Some  laugh  and  sing,  some  mope  and  weep, 
And  wish  their  frugal  sires  would  keep 

Their  only  sons  at  home; — 
Some  tease  the  future  tense,  and  plan 
The  full-grown  doings  of  the  man, 

And  pant  for  years  to  come  ! 

A  foolish  wish !     There 's  one  at  hoop ; 
And  four  at  fives  I  and  five  who  stoop 

The  marble  taw  to  speed  I 
And  one  that  curvets  in  and  out, 
Reining  his  fellow-cob  about, 

Would  I  were  in  his  steed  I 


MISCELLANEOUS.  49 

Yet  he  would  gladly  halt  and  drop 
That  boyish  harness  off,  to  swop 

With  this  world's  heavy  van — 
To  toil,  to  tug.     0  little  fool ! 
While  thou  can  be  a  horse  at  school 

To  wish  to  be  a  man ! 

Perchance  thou  deem'st  it  were  a  thing 
To  wear  a  crown — to  be  a  king! 

And  sleep  on  regal  down  ! 
Alas  !  thou  know'st  not  kingly  cares ; 
Far  happier  is  thy  head  that  wears 

That  hat  without  a  crown ! 

And  dost  thou  think  that  years  acquire 
New  added  joys  ?     Dost  think  thy  sire 

More  happy  than  his  son  ? 
That  manhood's  mirth  ?— 0,  go  thy  ways 
To  Drury-lane  when pfays, 

And  see  how  forced  our  fun ! 

Thy  taws  are  brave! — thy  tops  are  rare! 

Our  tops  are  spun  with  coils  of  care, 

Our  dumps  are  no  delight! — 
The  Elgin  marbles  are  but  tame. 
And  'tis  at  best  a  sorry  game 

To  fly  the  Muse's  kite  ! 

Our  hearts  are  dough,  our  heels  are  lead, 
Our  topmost  joys  fall  dull  and  dead, 

Like  balls  with  no  rebound! 
And  often  with  a  faded  eye 
We  look  behind,  and  send  a  sigh 

Toward  that  merry  ground  ! 

Then  be  contented.     Thou  hast  got 
The  most  of  heaven  in  thy  young  lot; 

There 's  sky-blue  in  thy  cup ! 
Thou  'It  find  thy  manhood  all  too  fast— 
Soon  come,  soon  gone !  and  age  at  last 

A  sorry  breaking  up  I 
3 


50  MISCELLANEOUS. 

SCHOOL   AND    SCHOOL-FELLOWS. 

W.  MACKWORTH    PRAED.. 

TWELVE  years  ago  I  made  a  mock 

Of  filthy  trades  and  traffics : 
I  wondered  what  they  meant  by  stock ; 

I  wrote  delightful  sapphics  : 
I  knew  the  streets  of  Rome  and  Troy, 

I  supped  with  fates  and  furies ; 
Twelve  years  ago  I  was  a  boy, 

A  happy  boy  at  Drury's. 

Twelve  years  ago !— how  many  a  thought 

Of  faded  pains  and  pleasures, 
Those  whispered  syllables  have  brought 

From  memory's  hoarded  treasures ! 
The  fields,  the  forms,  the  beasts,  the  books, 

The  glories  and  disgraces, 
The  voices  of  dear  friends,  the  looks 

Of  old  familiar  faces. 

Where  are  my  friends? — I  am  alone, 

No  playmate  shares  my  beaker — 
Some  lie  beneath  the  church-yard  stone, 

And  some  before  the  Speaker ; 
And  some  compose  a  tragedy, 

And  some  compose  a  rondo ; 
And  some  draw  sword  for  liberty, 

And  some  draw  pleas  for  John  Doe. 

Tom  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes, 

Without  the  fear  of  sessions ; 
Charles  Medler  loathed  false  quantiti.-. 

As  much  as  false  professions ; 
Now  Mill  keeps  order  in  the  land, 

A  magistrate  pedantic ; 
And  Medler's  feet  repose  unscanned 

Beneath  the  wide  Atlantic. 

Wild  Nick,  whose  oaths  made  such  a  din, 

Does  Dr.  Martext's  duty; 
And  Mullion,  with  that  monstrous  chin, 

Is  married  to  a  beauty ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  5J 

And  Barrel  studies,  week  by  week, 

His  Mant  and  not  his  Manton ; 
And  Ball,  who  was  but  poor  at  Greek, 

Is  very  rich  at  Canton. 

And  I  am  eight-and-twenty  now — 

The  world's  cold  chain  has  bound  me; 
And  darker  shades  are  on  my  brow, 

And  sadder  scenes  around  me : 
In  Parliament  I  fill  my  seat, 

With  many  other  noodles ; 
And  lay  my  head  in  G-errnyn-street, 

And  sip  my  hock  at  Doodle's. 

But  often  when  the  cares  of  life, 

Have  set  my  temples  aching, 
"When  visions  haunt  me  of  a  wife, 

When  duns  await  my  waking, 
When  Lady  Jane  is  in  a  pet, 

Or  Hobby  in  a  hurry, 
When  Captain  Hazard  wins  a  bet, 

Or  Beaulieu  spoils  a  curry  : 

For  hours  and  hours,  I  think  and  talk 

Of  each  remembered  hobby  : 
I  long  to  lounge  in  Poet's  Walk — 

Or  shiver  in  the  lobby  ; 
I  wish  that  I  could  run  away 

From  House,  and  court,  and  levee, 
Where  bearded  men  appear  to-day, 

Just  Eton  boys,  grown  heavy  ; 

That  I  could  bask  in  childhood's  sun, 

And  dance  o'er  childhood's  roses; 
And  find  huge  wealth  in  one  pound  one, 

Vast  wit  and  broken  noses ; 
And  pray  Sir  Giles  at  Datchet  Lane, 

And  call  the  milk-maids  Houris  ; 
That  I  could  be  a  boy  again — 

A  happy  boy  at  Drury's ! 


52  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE    VICAR. 

W.  MACKWORTH    PRAED. 

SOME  years  ago,  ere  Time  and  Taste 

Had  turned  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Marys'  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket, 
Was  always  shown  across  the  Green, 

And  guided  to  the  Parson's  Wicket, 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lisson  lath ; 

Fair  Margaret  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveler  up  the  path, 

Through  clean-clipped  rows  of  box  and  myrtle  : 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected, 
Wagged  all  their  tails,  and  seemed  to  say, 

""bur  master  knows  you;  you  're  expected!1' 

Up  rose  the  Reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Uprose  the  Doctor's  "winsome  marrow;" 
The  lady  lay  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasped  his  ponderous  Barrow ; 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reached  his  journey's  end, 

And  warmed  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gained  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge : — 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth  the  traveler  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  Vicarage,  or  the  Vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 
With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses; 

It  slipped  from  politics  to  puns: 

It  passed  from  Mohammed  to  Moses : 


MISCELLANEOUS.  53 

Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 

Of  loud  Dissent  the  mortal  terror ; 
And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  lino, 

He  'stablished  Truth,  or  started  Error, 
The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep ; 

The  Deist  sighed  with  saving  sorrow ; 
And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep, 

And  dreamed  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermons  never  said  or  showed 

That  Earth  is  foul,  that  Heaven  is  gracious, 

Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

'     From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius  ; 

And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspired 

The  hand  and  head  that  penned  and  planned  them, 

For  all  who  understood,  admired, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote,  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises  and  smaller  verses ; 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost, 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban ; 
And  trifles  for  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothing  for  Sylvanus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking  ; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking : 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning, 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improved  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  loved  to  sit 
In  the  low  hut  or  garnished  cottoge, 


54  MISCELLANEOUS. 

And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage : 

At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 
And  when  his  hand  unbarred  the  shutter, 

The  clammy  lips  of  Fever  smiled 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter. 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Caesar  or  of  Venus : 
From  him  I  learned  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's  cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Quae  genus ; 
I  used  to  singe  his  powdered  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in ; 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustin. 

Alack  the  change !  in  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled  ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climbed,  the  beds  I  rifled : 
The  church  is  larger  than  before : 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more: 

And  pews  are  fitted  up  for  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  Vicar's  seat :  you  '11  hear 
The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 

Whose  hand  is  white,  whose  tone  is  clear, 
Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 

Where  is  the  old  man  laid  ? — look  down, 
And  construe  on  the  slab  before  yon, 

Hie  JACET  GULIELMUS  BROWN, 

VlR  NULLA  NON  DONANDU8  LAURA. 


THE  BACHELOR'S   CANE-BOTTOMED   CHAIR. 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 

IN  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I  've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  55 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 

But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure ; 

And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 

Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  crammed  in  all  nooks, 

With  worthless  old  knicknacks  and  silly  old  books, 

And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 

Cracked  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes  from  friends. 

Old  armor,  prints,  pictures,  pipes,  china  (all  cracked), 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed ; 

A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see ; 

What  matter  ?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require, 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and  the  chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and  old  times; 
As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There  's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best ; 
For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 

'Tis  a  bandy-legged,  high-shouldered,  worm-eaten  seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  FANNY  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottomed  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling  in  holding  such  charms, 

A  thrill  must  have  passed  through  your  withered  old  arms  I 

I  looked,  and  I  longed,  and  I  wished  in  despair ; 

I  wished  myself  turned  to  a  cane-bottomed  chair. 


50  MISCELLANEOUS. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 

She  'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face ! 

A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 

And  she  sat  there,  and  bloomed  in  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince ; 

Saint  FANNY,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare, 

The  queen  of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company  's  gone, 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  FANNY  I  see  in  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room  ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair, 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottomed  chair. 


STANZAS    TO    PALE    ALE. 

PUNCH. 

OH  !  I  have  loved  thee  fondly,  ever 
Preferr'd  thee  to  the  choicest  wine  ; 

From  thee  my  lips  they  could  not  sever 
By  saying  thou  contain' dst  strychnine. 

Did  I  believe  the  slander  ?     Never ! 
I  held  thee  still  to  be  divine. 

For  me  thy  color  hath  a  charm, 

Although  'tis  true  they  call  thee  Pale ; 

And  be  thou  cold  when  I  am  warm, 
As  late  I  've  been — so  high  the  scale 

Of  FAHRENHEIT — and  febrile  harm 
Allay,  refrigerating  Ale ! 

How  sweet  thou  art ! — yet  bitter,  too 

And  sparkling,  like  satiric  fun ; 
But  how  much  better  thee  to  brew, 

Than  a  conundrum  or  a  pun, 
It  is,  in  every  point  of  view, 

Must  be  allow'd  by  every  one. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  57 

Refresh  my  heart  and  cool  my  throat, 

Light,  airy  child  of  malt  and  hops  I 
That  dost  not  stuff,  engross,  and  bloat 

The  skin,  the  sides,  the  chin,  the  chops, 
And  burst  the  buttons  off  the  coat, 

Like  stout  and  porter — fattening  slops ! 


"CHILDREN    MUST    BE    PAID    FOR." 

PUNCH. 

SWEET  is  the  sound  of  infant  voice  ; 

Young  innocence  is  full  of  charms : 
There 's  not  a  pleasure  half  so  choice, 

As  tossing  up  a  child  in  arms. 
Babyhood  is  a  blessed  state, 

Felicity  expressly  made  for ; 
But  still,  on  earth  it  is  our  fate, 

That  even  "  Children  must  be  paid  for." 

If  in  an  omnibus  we  ride, 

It  is  a  beauteous  sight  to  see, 
When  full  the  vehicle  inside, 

Age  taking  childhood  on  its  knee. 
But  in  the  dog-days'  scorching  heat, 

When  a  slight  breath  of  air  is  pray'd  for, 
Half  suffocated  in  our  seat, 

We  feel  that  "  Children  must  be  paid  for. ' 

There  is  about  the  sports  of  youth 

A  charm  that  reaches  every  heart, 
Marbles  or  tops  are  games  of  truth, 

The  bat  plays  no  deceiver's  part. 
But  if  we  hear  a  sudden,  crash, 

No  explanation  need  be  stay'd  for, 
We  know  there 's  something  gone  to  smash  ; 

We  feel  that  "  Children  must  be  paid  for." 

How  exquisite  the  infant's  grace, 

When,  clambering  upon  the  knee, 
The  cherub,  smiling,  takes  his  place 

Upon  his  mother's  lap  at  tea ; 


58  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Perchance  the  beverage  flows  o'er, 
And  leaves  a  stain  there  is  no  aid  for, 

On  carpet,  dress,  or  chair.     Once  more 
We  feel  that  "  Children  must  be  paid  for." 

Presiding  at  the  festive  board, 
With  many  faces  laughing  round, 

Dull  melancholy  is  ignored 

While  mirth  and  jollity  abound  : 

We  see  our  table  amply  spread 

With  knives  and  forks  a  dozen  laid  for ; 

Then  pause  to  think  : — "  How  are  they  fed  ?' 
t  Yes,  "  Children  must  indeed  be  paid  for!" 


THE    MUS  QUITO. 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

Fair  insect!  that,  with  thread-like  legs  spread  out, 

And  blood-extracting  bill,  and  filmy  wing, 
Dost  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 

In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 
And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 
Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 

Full  angrily  men  hearken  to  thy  plaint ; 
Thou  gettest  many  a  brush  and  many  a  curse. 

For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,  and  starved,  and  faint  : 
Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food,' 
Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 

Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth — 
Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fivsh  and  green, 

The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on  earth ; 
For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 
The  ocean-nymph  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 

Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 

And  when,  at  length,  thy  gauzy  wings  grew  strong, 

Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 
Rose  in  the  sky,  and  bore  thee  soft  along ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  59 

The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft  thee  on  thy  way, 
And  danced  and  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

Calm  rose  afar  the  city  spires,  and  thence 
Came  the  deep  murmur  of  its  throng  of  men, 

And  as  its  grateful  odors  met  thy  sense, 

They  seemed  the  perfumes  of  thy  native  fen. 

Fair  lay  its  crowded  streets,  and  at  the  sight 

Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

At  length  thy  pinion  fluttered  in  Broadway — 

Ah,  there  were  fairy  steps,  and  white  necks  kissed 

By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 

Shone  through  the  snowy  vails  like  stars  through  mist ; 

And  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 

Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transparent  skin. 

Sure  these  were  sights  to  tempt  an  anchorite  ! 

What !  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  ? 
Thou  wailest  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 

As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain  : 
Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well — come  near, 
And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What  say'st  thou,  slanderer! — rouge  makes  thee  sick ? 

And  China  Bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food? 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  for  blood  ? 
Go !  't  was  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime — 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at — not  to  touch ; 

To  worship — not  approach — that  radiant  white ; 
And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 

As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 
Thou  should'st  have  gazed  at  distance,  and  admired — 
Murmured  thy  admiration,  and  retired. 

Thou  'rt  welcome  to  the  town — but  why  come  here 

To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 
Alas !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from  me. 


GO  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 
Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 

Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat ; 

On  well-filled  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 
Fix  thy  light  pump,  and  press  thy  freckled  feet : 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows, 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins,  for  thee,  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek,  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 

Shall  tempt  thee,  as  thou  flittest  round  the  brow 

And  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 

No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


TO  THE  LADY  IN  THE  CHEMISETTE  WITH 
BLACK  BUTTONS. 

N.  T.  WILLIS. 

I  KNOW  not  who  thou  art,  thou  lovely  one, 

Thine  eyes  were  drooped,  thy  lips  half  sorrowful. 

Yet  didst  thou  eloquently  smile  on  me, 

While  handing  up  thy  sixpence  through  the  hole 

Of  that  o'er-freighted  omnibus  I — ah,  mo  ! — 

The  world  is  full  of  meetings  such  as  this ; 

A  thrill — a  voiceless  challenge  and  reply, 

And  sudden  partings  after — we  may  pass, 

And  know  not  of  each  other's  nearness  now, 

Thou  in  the  Knickerbocker  line,  and  I 

Lone  in  the  Waverley  !     Oh !  life  of  pain  ; 

And  even  should  I  pass  where  thou  dost  dwell — 

Nay,  see  thee  in  the  basement  taking  tea — 

So  cold  is  this  inexorable  world, 

I  must  glide  on,  I  dare  not  feast  mine  eye, 

I  dare  not  make  articulate  my  love, 

Nor  o'er  the  iron  rails  that  hem  thee  in 

Venture  to  throw  to  thee  my  innocent  card, 

Not  knowing  thy  papa. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  61 

Hast  thou  papa  ? 
Is  thy  progenitor^  alive,  fair  girl  ? 
And  what  doth  he  for  lucre  ?     Lo  again  I 
A  shadow  o'er  the  face  of  this  fair  dream ! 
For  thou  may'st  be  as  beautiful  as  Love 
Can  make  thee,  and  the  ministering  hands 
Of  milliners,  incapable  of  more, 
Be  lifted  at  thy  shapeliness  and  air, 
And  still  'twixt  me  and  thee,  invisibly, 
May  rise  a  wall  of  adamant.     My  breath 
Upon  my  pale  lip  freezes  as  I  name 
Manhattan's  orient  verge,  and  eke  the  west 
In  its  far  down  extremity.     Thy  sire 
May  be  the  signer  of  a  temperance  pledge, 
And  clad  all  decently  may  walk  the  earth — 
Nay — may  be  number'd  with  that  blessed  few 
Who  never  ask  for  discount — yet,  alus  ! 
If,  homeward  wending  from  his  daily  cares, 
He  go  by  Murphy's  Line,  thence  eastward  tending — 
Or  westward  from  the  Line  of  Kipp  &  Brown — 
My  vision  is  departed  !     Harshly  falls 
The  doom  upon  the  ear,  "  She  's  not  genteel !" 
And  pitiless  is  woman  who  doth  keep 
Of  "  good  society"  the  golden  key ! 
And  gentlemen  are  bound,  as  are  the  stars, 
To  stoop  not,  after  rising  1 

But  farewell, 

And  I  shall  look  for  thee  in  streets  where  dwell 
The  passengers  by  Broadway  Lines  alone  ! 
And  if  my  dreams  be  true,  and  thou,  indeed, 
Art  only  not  more  lovely  than  genteel — 
Then,  lady  of  the  snow-white  chemisette, 
The  heart  which  vent'rously  cross'd  o'er  to  thee 
Upon  that  bridge  of  sixpence,  may  remain — 
And,  with  up-town  devotedness  and  truth, 
My  love  shall  hover  round  thee  ! 


62  MISCELLANEOUS. 

COME    OUT,    LOVE. 

N.    P.    WILLIS. 

Argument. — The  poet  starts  from  the  Bowling  Green  to  take  his  sweetheart  up 
to  Thompson's  for  an  ice,  or  (if  she  is  inclined  for  more)  ices.  He  confines  his 
muse  to  matters  which  any  every-day  man  and  young  woman  may  see  in  taking 
the  same  promenade  for  the  same  innocent  refreshment. 

COME  out,  love — the  night  is  enchanting ! 

The  moon  hangs  just  over  Broadway ; 
The  stars  are  all  lighted  and  panting — 

(Hot  weather  up  there,  I  dare  say  !) 
'Tis  seldom  that  "  coolness"  entices, 

And  love  is  no  better  for  chilling — 
But  come  up  to  Thompson's  for  ices, 

And  cool  your  warm  heart  for  a  shilling  1 

What  perfume  comes  balmily  o'er  us  ? 

Mint  juleps  from  City  Hotel ! 
A  loafer  is  smoking  before  us — 

(A  nasty  cigar,  by  the  smell !) 
0  Woman !  thou  secret  past  knowing ! 

Like  lilacs  that  grow  by  the  wall, 
You  breathe  every  air  that  is  going, 

Yet  gather  but  sweetness  from  all  I 

On,  on  !  by  St.  Paul's,  and  the  Astor  ! 

Religion  seems  very  ill-plann'd  ! 
For  one  day  we  list  to  the  pastor, 

For  six  days  we  list  to  the  band ! 
The  sermon  may  dwell  on  the  future, 

The  organ  your  pulsea  may  calm — 
When — pest ! — that  remember'd  cachucha 

Upsets  both  the  sermon  and  psalm  ! 

Oh,  pity  the  love  that  must  utter 

While  goes  a  swift  omnibus  by  ! 
(Though  sweet  is  I  scream*  when  the  flutter 

Of  fans  shows  thermometers  high) — 
But  if  what  I  bawl,  or  I  mutter, 

Falls  into  your  ear  but  to  die, 
Oh,  the  dew  that  falls  into  the  gutter 

Is  not  more  unhappy  than  1 1 

*  Query — Should  this  he  Ic.e,  cream,  or  I  Hf.ream.  f — Printer's  Devil. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  63 

THE    WHITE    CHIP    HAT. 

N.    P.    WILLIS. 

I  PASS'D  her  one  day  in  a  hurry, 

When  late  for  the  Post  with  a  letter — 
I  think  near  the  corner  of  Murray — 

And  up  rose  my  heart  as  I  met  her  I 
I  ne'er  saw  a  parasol  handled 

So  like  to  a  duchess's  doing — 
I  ne'er  saw  a  slighter  foot  sandal'd, 

Or  so  fit  to  exhale  in  the  shoeing — 
Lovely  thing  ! 

Surprising ! — one  woman  can  dish  us 

So  many  rare  sweets  up  together ! 
Tournure  absolutely  delicious — 

Chip  hat  without  flower  or  feather — 
Well-gloved  and  enchantingly  boddiced, 

Her  waist  like  the  cup  of  a  lily — 
And  an  air,  that,  while  daintily  modest, 

RepelTd  both  the  saucy  and  silly — 
Quite  the  thing  1 

For  such  a  rare  wonder  you  '11  say,  sir, 

There 's  reason  in  tearing  one's  tether — 
And,  to  see  her  again  in  Broadway,  sir, 

Who  would  not  be  lavish  of  leather  ! 
I  met  her  again,  and  as  you  know 

I  'in  sage  as  old  Voltaire  at  Ferney — 
But  I  said  a  bad  word — for  my  Juno 

Look'd  sweet  on  a  sneaking  attorney — 
Horrid  thing  1 

Away  flies  the  dream  I  had  nourish' d — 

My  castles  like  mockery  fall,  sir  ! 
And,  now,  the  fine  airs  that  she  flourish'd 

Seem  varnish  and  crockery  all,  sir  1 
The  bright  oup  which  angels  might  handle 

Turns  earthy  when  finger'd  by  asses — 
And  the  star  that  "swaps"  light  with  a  candle, 

Thenceforth  for  a  pennyworth  passes  1 — 
Not  the  thing  1 


64  MISCELLANEOUS. 

YOU    KNOW    IF    IT    WAS    YOU. 

N.    P.    WILLIS. 

As  the  chill' d  robin,  bound  to  Florida 
Upon  a  morn  of  autumn,  crosses  flying 
The  air-track  of  a  snipe  most  passing  fair — 
Yet  colder  in  her  blood  than  she  is  fair — 
And  as  that  robin  lingers  on  the  wing, 
And  feels  the  snipe's  flight  in  the  eddying  air, 
And  loves  her  for  her  coldness  not  the  less — 
But  fain  would  win  her  to  that  warmer  sky 
Where  love  lies  waking  with  the  fragrant  stars — 
Lo  I — a  languisher  for  sunnier  climes, 
Where  fruit,  leaf,  blossom,  on  the  trees  forever 
Image  the  tropic  deathlessness  of  love- 
Have  met,  and  long'd  to  win  thee,  fairest  lady, 
To  a  more  genial  clime  than  cold  Broadway  ! 

Tranquil  and  effortless  thou  glidest  on, 
As  doth  the  swan  upon  the  yielding  water, 
And  with  a  cheek  like  alabaster  cold  ! 
But  as  thou  didst  divide  the  amorous  air 
Just  opposite  the  Astor,  and  didst  lift 
That  vail  of  languid  lashes  to  look  in 
At  Leary's  tempting  window — lady  !  then 
My  heart  sprang  in  beneath  that  fringed  vail, 
Like  an  adventurous  bird  that  would  escape 
To  some  warm  chamber  from  the  outer  cold ! 
And  there  would  I  delightedly  remain, 
And  close  that  fringed  window  with  a  kiss, 
And  in  the  warm  sweet  chamber  of  thy  breast, 
Be  prisoner  forever ! 


THE    DECLARATION. 

N.   P.    WILLIS. 

'T  WAS  late,  and  the  gay  company  was  gone, 
And  light  lay  soft  on  the  deserted  room 
From  alabaster  vases,  and  a  scent 
Of  orange-leaves,  and  sweet  verbena  came 
Through  the  unshutter' d  window  on  the  air. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  05 

And  the  rich  pictures  with  their  dark  old  tints 
Hung  like  a  twilight  landscape,  and  all  things 
Seem'd  hush'd  into  a  slumber.     Isabel, 
The  dark-eyed,  spiritual  Isabel  » 

Was  leaning  on  her  harp,  and  I  had  stay'd 
To  whisper  what  I  could  not  when  the  crowd 
Hung  on  her  look  like  worshipers.     I  knelt, 
And  with  the  fervor  of  a  lip  unused 
To  the  cool  breath  of  reason,  told  my  love. 
There  was  no  answer,  and  I  took  the  hand 
That  rested  on  the  strings,  and  press'd  a  kiss 
Upon  it  unforbidden — and  again 
Besought  her,  that  this  silent  evidence 
That  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her  heart, 
Might  have  the  seal  of  one  sweet  syllable. 
I  kiss'd  the  small  white  fingers  as  I  spoke, 
And  she  withdrew  them  gently,  and  upraised 
Her  forehead  from  its  resting-place,  and  look'd 
Earnestly  on  me — She  had  been  asleep  I 


LOVE    IN    A    COTTAGE. 

N.    P.    WILLIS. 

THEY  maj*  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage, 

And  bowers  of  trellised  vine — 
Of  nature  bewitehingly  simple, 

And  milkmaids  half  divine  ; 
They  may  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  sleeping 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree, 
And  a  walk  in  the  fields  at  morning, 

By  the  side  of  a  footstep  free  ! 

But  give  me  a  sly  flirtation 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier — 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses, 

And  nobody  very  near : 
Or  a  seat  on  a  silken  sofa, 

With  a  glass  of  pure  old  wine, 
And  mamma  too  blind  to  discover 

The  small  white  hand  in  mine. 


66  MISCELLANEOUS. 

Your  love  in  a  cottage  is  hungry, 
Your  vine  is  a  nest  for  flies — 

Your  milkmaid  shocks  the  Graces, 
•     And  simplicity  talks  of  pies ! 

You  lie  down  to  your  shady  slumber 
And  wake  with  a  bug  in  your  ear, 

And  your  damsel  that  walks  in  the  morning 

Is  shod  like  a  mountaineer. 

* 

True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet, 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease — 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 

And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady, 

His  foot's  an  invisible  thing, 
And  his  arrow  is  tipp'd  with  a  jewel, 

And  shot  from  a  silver  string. 


TO    HELEN    IN    A    HUFF. 

N.    P.    WILLIS. 

NAY,  lady,  one  frown  is  enough 

In  a  life  as  soon  over  as  this — 
And  though  minutes  seem  long  in  a  Jiuff, 

They  're  minutes  'tis  pity  to  miss ! 
The  smiles  you  imprison  so  lightly 

Are  reckon' d,  like  days  in  eclipse  ; 
And  though  you  may  smile  again  brightly, 

You  've  lost  so  much  light  from  your  lips  I 
Pray,  lady,  smile  1 

The  cup  that  is  longest  untasted 

May  be  with  our  bliss  running  o'er, 
And,  love  when  we  will,  we  have  wasted 

An  age  in  not  loving  before ! 
Perchance  Cupid 's  forging  a  fetter 

To  tie  us  together  some  day, 
And,  just  for  the  chance,  we  had  better 

Be  laying  up  love,  I  should  say  1 
Nay,  lady,  smile ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  •         67 


THE   HEIGHT   OF   THE   RIDICULOUS. 

OLIVER    WENDELL   HOLMES. 

I  WROTE  some  lines,  once  on  a  time, 

In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die ; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came ; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him, 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me, 

He  of  the  mighty  limb ! 

"  These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added  (as  a  trifling  jest), 

"  There  '11  be  the  devil  to  pay." 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched, 

And  saw  him  peep  within ; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 

He  read  the  next ;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear ; 
He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth  ;  he  broke  into  a  roar ; 

The  fifth  ;  his  waistband  split ; 
The  sixth ;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 

I  watched  that  wretched  man, 
And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 

As  funny  as  I  can. 


68  MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE    BRIEFLESS    BARRISTER. 

A    BALLAD. 

JOHN    G.    SAXK. 

AN  Attorney  was  taking  a  turn, 

In  shabby  habiliments  drest ; 
His  coat  it  was  shockingly  worn, 

And  the  rust  had  invested  his  vest. 

His  breeches  had  suffered  a  breach, 
His  linen  and  worsted  were  worse ; 

He  had  scarce  a  whole  crown  in  his  hat, 
And  not  half-a-crown  in  his  purse. 

And  thus  as  he  wandered  along, 

A  cheerless  and  comfortless  elf, 
He  sought  for  relief  in  a  song, 

Or  coniplainingly  talked  to  himself: 

"  Unfortunate  man  that  I  am  ! 

I 've  never  a  client  but  grief; 
The  case  is,  I  've  no  case  at  all, 

And  in  brief,  I  've  ne'er  had  a  brief! 

"  I  've  waited  and  waited  in  vain, 

Expecting  an  '  opening'  to  find. 
Where  an  honest  young  lawyer  might  gain 

Some  reward  for  the  toil  of  his  mind. 

"  'Tis  not  that  I  'm  wanting  in  law, 

Or  lack  an  intelligent  face, 
That  others  have  cases  to  plead, 

While  I  have  to  plead  for  a  case. 

"  O,  how  can  a  modest  young  man 
E'er  hope  for  the  smallest  progression — 

The  profession's  already  so  full 
Of  lawyers  so  full  of  profession !" 

While  thus  he  was  strolling  around, 

His  eye  accidentally  fell 
On  a  very  deep  hole  in  the  ground, 

And  he  sighed  to  himself,  "  It  is  well !" 


MISCELLANEOUS.  69 

To  curb  his  emotions,  he  sat 

On  the  curb-stone  the  space  of  a  minute, 
Then  cried,  "  Here 's  an  opening  at  last!" 

And  in  less  than  a  jiffy  was  in  it ! 

Next  morning  twelve  citizens  came 
(Twas  the  coroner  bade  them  attend), 

To  the  end  that  it  might  be  determined 
How  the  man  had  determined  his  end  I 

"  The  man  was  a  lawyer,  I  hear," 
Quoth  the  foreman  who  sat  on  the  corse ; 

"  A  lawyer  ?     Alas !"  said  another, 
"  Undoubtedly  he  died  of  remorse  1" 

A  third  said,  "  He  knew  the  deceased, 

An  attorney  well  versed  in  the  laws, 
And  as  to  the  cause  of  his  death, 

'Twas  no  doubt  from  the  want  of  a  cause." 

The  jury  decided  at  length, 

After  solemnly  weighing  the  matter, 
"  That  the  lawyer  was  drownded,  because 

He  could  not  keep  his  head  above  water  I" 


SONNET    TO    A    CLAM. 

JOHN   G.    SAXE. 
Dura  tacent  clam&nt. 

INGLORIOUS  FRIEND  !  most  confident  I  am 

Thy  Hie  is  one  of  very  little  ease ; 

Albeit  men  mock  thee  with  their  similes 
And  prate  of  being  "  happy  as  a  clam  !" 
What  though  thy  shell  protects  thy  fragile  head 

From  the  sharp  bailiffs  of  the  briny  sea  ? 

Thy  valves  are,  sure,  no  safety-valves  to  thee, 
While  rakes  are  free  to  desecrate  thy  bed, 
And  bear  thee  off — as  foemen  take  their  spoil — 

Far  from  thy  friends  and  family  to  roam ; 

Forced,  like  a  Hessian,  from  thy  native  home, 
To  meet  destruction  in  a  foreign  broil ! 

Though  thou  art  tender,  yet  thy  humble  bard 

Declares,  O  clam  !  thy  case  is  shocking  hard  ! 


70  MISCELLANEOUS. 


VENUS    OF    THE    NEEDLE. 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM. 

0  MARYANNE,  you  pretty  girl, 

Intent  on  silky  labor, 
Of  sempstresses  the  pink  and  pearl, 

Excuse  a  peeping  neighbor ! 

Those  eyes,  forever  drooping,  give 

The  long  brown  lashes  rarely ; 
But  violets  in  the  shadows  live, — 

For  once  unvail  them  fairly. 

Hast  thou  not  lent  that  flounce  enough 

Of  looks  so  long  and  earnest  ? 
Lo,  here  's  more  "penetrable  stuff," 

To  which  thou  never  turnest. 

Ye  graceful  fingers,  deftly  sped  ! 

How  slender,  and  how  nimble ! 
0  might  I  wind  their  skeins  of  thread, 

Or  but  pick  up  their  thimble  ! 

How  blest  the  youth  whom  love  shall  bring. 

And  happy  stars  embolden, 
To  change  the  dome  into  a  ring, 

The  silver  into  golden ! 

Who  '11  steal  some  morning  to  her  side 

To  take  her  finger's  measure, 
While  Maryanne  pretends  to  chide, 

And  blushes  deep  with  pleasure. 

Who  '11  watch  her  sew  her  wedding-gown 

Well  conscious  that  it  is  hers, 
Who  '11  glean  a  tress,  without  a  frown, 

With  those  so  ready  scissors. 

Who  '11  taste  those  ripenings  of  the  south, 

The  fragrant  and  delicious — 
Don't  put  the  pins  into  your  mouth, 

0  Maryanne,  my  precious ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  71 

I  almost  wish  it  were  my  trust 

To  teach  how  shocking  that  is ; 
I  wish  I  had  not,  as  I  must, 

To  quit  this  tempting  lattice. 

Sure  aim  takes  Cupid,  fluttering  foe, 

Across  a  street  so  narrow  ; 
A  thread  of  silk  to  string  his  bow, 

A  needle  for  his  arrow ! 


NARRATIVE, 


NARRATIVE, 


TAKE   THY   OLD    CLOAK   ABOUT   THEE. 

[OLD  BALLAD,  QUOTED  BY  SHAKSPEARE,  IN  OTHELLO.] 

PERCY  RELIQUES. 

THIS  winters  weather  itt  waxeth  cold, 

And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill, 
And  Boreas  blowes  his  blasts  soe  bold, 

That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill ; 
Bell,  my  wiffe,  who  loves  noe  strife, 

Shee  sayd  unto  me  quietlye, 
Rise  up,  and  save  cow  Cumbockes  liffe, 

Man,  put  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

HE. 

0  Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  and  scorne  ? 
Thou  kenst  my  cloak  is  very  thin  : 

Itt  is  soe  bare  and  overworne 

A  cricke  he  theron  cannot  renn  : 
Then  He  no  longer  borrowe  nor  lend, 

For  once  He  new  appareld  bee, 
To-morrow  He  to  towne  and  spend, 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  nice. 

SHE. 
Cow  Crumbocke  is  a  very  good  cowe, 

Shee  ha  beene  alwayes  true  to  the  paylo, 
She  has  helpt  us  to  butter  and  cheese,  I  trow, 

And  other  things  shee  will  not  fayle ; 

1  wold  bo  loth  to  see  her  pine, 

Good  husband  councell  take  of  mee, 
It  is  not  for  us  to  go  soe  fine, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 


76  NARRATIVE. 

HE. 

My  cloake  it  was  a  very  good  cloake 

Itt  hath  been  alwayes  true  to  the  weare, 
But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groat ; 

I  have  had  it  four  and  forty  yeere ; 
Sometime  itt  was  of  cloth  in  graine, 

'Tis  now  but  a  sigh  clout  as  you  may  see, 
It  will  neither  hold  out  winde  nor  raine ; 

And  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 


SHE. 
It  is  four  and  fortye  yeeres  agoe 

Since  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken, 
And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  towe 

Of  children  either  nine  or  ten ; 
Wee  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and  men ; 

In  the  feare  of  God  I  trow  they  bee  ; 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyselfe  misken  ? 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 


HE. 

0  Bell,  my  wiffe,  why  dost  thou  floute  ! 

Now  is  no  we,  and  then  was  then : 
Seeke  now  all  the  world  throughout, 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen. 
They  are  cladd  in  blacke,  greene,  yellowe,  or  gray, 

Soe  far  above  their  owne  degree : 
Once  in  my  life  He  doe  as  they, 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 


SHE. 
King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peere, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne, 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere ; 

Therefore  he  calld  the  taylor  Lowne. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne, 

And  thouse  but  of  a  low  degree : 
Itt  'a  pride  that  putts  this  countrye  downe, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 


NARRATIVE.  77 

HE. 

"  Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can  ; 
And  oft,  to  live  a  quiet  life, 

I  am  forced  to  yield,  though  Ime  good-man ;" 
Itt  's  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  threape, 

Unlesse  he  first  gave  oer  the  plea : 
As  wee  began  wee  now  will  leave, 

And  He  take  mine  old  cloake  about  mee. 


KING    JOHN    AND    THE    ABBOT. 

[AN  OLD  ENGLISH  BALLAD LONG  VERY  POPULAR.] 

PERCY  RELIQUES. 

AN  ancient  story  lie  tell  you  anon 
Of  a  notable  prince,  that  was  called  King  John ; 
And  he  ruled  England  with  maine  and  with  might, 
For  he  did  great  wrong,  and  maintein'd  little  right 

And  He  tell  you  a  story,  a  story  so  merrye, 
Concerning  the  Abbot  of  Canterbury  e  ; 
How  for  his  house-keeping,  and  high  renowne, 
They  rode  poste  for  him  to  fair  London  towne. 

An  hundred  men,  the  king  did  heare  say, 
The  abbot  kept  in  his  house  every  day ; 
And  fifty  golde  chaynes,  without  any  doubt, 
In  velvet  coates  waited  the  abbot  about. 

How  now,  father  abbot,  I  heare  it  of  thee, 
Thou  keepest  a  farre  better  house  than  mee, 
And  for  thy  house-keeping  and  high  renowne, 
I  feare  thou  work'st  treason  against  my  crown. 

My  liege,  quo'  the  abbot,  I  would  it  were  knowne, 
I  never  spend  nothing  but  what  is  my  owne ; 
And  I  trust  your  grace  will  doe  me  no  deere 
For  spending  of  my  owne  true-gotten  geere. 


78  NARRATIVE. 

Yes,  yes,  father  abbot,  thy  fault  it  is  highe, 
And  now  for  the  same  thou  needest  must  dye ; 
For  except  thou  canst  answer  me  questions  three, 
Thy  head  shall  be  smitten  from  thy  bodie. 

And  first,  quo'  the  king,  when  I  'm  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crowne  of  golde  so  faire  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men,  so  noble  of  birthe, 
Thou  must  tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worthe. 

Secondlye,  tell  me,  without  any  doubt, 
How  soone  I  may  ride  the  whole  world  about, 
And  at  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrink, 
But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do  think. 

0,  these  are  hard  questions  for  my  shallow  witt, 
Nor  I  cannot  answer  your  grace  as  yet ; 
But  if  you  will  give  me  but  three  weekes  space, 
He  do  my  endeavour  to  answer  your  grace. 

Now  three  weeks  space  to  thee  will  I  give, 
And  that  is  the  longest  time  thou  hast  to  live ; 
For  if  thou  dost  not  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  lands  and  thy  livings  are  forfeit  to  mee. 

Away  rode  the  abbot,  all  sad  at  that  word, 
And  he  rode  to  Cambridge  and  Oxenford ; 
But  never  a  doctor  there  was  so  wise, 
That  could  with  his  learning  an  answer  devise. 

Then  home  rode  the  abbot,  of  comfort  so  cold, 
And  he  mett  his  shepheard  agoing  to  fold : 
How  now,  my  lord  abbot,  you  are  welcome  home, 
What  newes  do  you  bring  us  from  good  King  John  ? 

Sad  newes,  sad  newes,  shepheard,  I  must  give : 
That  I  have  but  three  days  more  to  live ; 
For  if  I  do  not  answer  him  questions  three, 
My  head  will  be  smitten  from  my  bodie. 

The  first  is  to  tell  him  there  in  that  stead, 
With  his  crowne  of  golde  so  fair  on  his  head, 
Among  all  his  liege-men  so  noble  of  birth, 
To  within  one  penny  of  what  he  is  wortlu 


NARltATJVB.  79 

/The  seconde,  to  tell  him,  without  any  doubt, 
How  soone  he  may  ride  this  whole  world  about : 
And  at  the  third  question  I  must  not  shrinke, 
But  tell  him  there  truly  what  he  does  thinke. 

Now  cheare  up,  sire  abbot,  did  you  never  hear  yet, 
That  a  fool  he  may  learne  a  wise  man  witt  ? 
Lend  me  horse,  and  serving-men,  and  your  apparel, 
And  I  '11  ride  to  London  to  answere  your  quarrel. 

Nay  frowne  not,  if  it  hath  bin  told  unto  mee, 

I  am  like  your  lordship,  as  ever  may  bee  : 

And  if  you  will  but  lend  me  your  gowne, 

There  is  none  shall  knowe  us  in  fair  London  towne. 

Now  horses  and  serving-men  thou  shalt  have, 
With  sumptuous  array  most  gallant  and  brave ; 
With  crozier,  and  miter,  and  rochet,  and  cope, 
Fit  to  appeare  'fore  our  fader  the  pope. 

Now  welcome,  sire  abbot,  the  king  he  did  say, 
'Tis  well  thou 'rt  come  back  to  keepe  thy  day; 
For  and  if  thou  canst  answer  my  questions  three, 
Thy  life  and  thy  living  both  saved  shall  bee. 

And  first,  when  thou  seest  me  here  in  this  stead, 
With  my  crown  of  golde  so  fair  on  my  head, 
Among  all  my  liege-men  so  noble  of  birthe, 
Tell  me  to  one  penny  what  I  am  worth. 

For  thirty  pence  our  Saivour  was  sold 

Among  the  false  Jewes,  as  I  have  bin  told : 

And  twenty-nine  is  the  worth  of  thee, 

For  I  thinke,  thou  art  one  penny  worser  than  hee. 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Bittel, 
I  did  not  think  I  had  been  worth  so  littel ! 
— Now  secondly  tell  me,  without  any  doubt, 
How  soone  I  may  ride  this  whole  world  about. 

You  must  rise  with  the  sun,  and  ride  with  the  same, 
Until  the  next  morning  he  riseth  againe ; 
And  then  your  grace  need  not  make  any  doubt 
But  in  twenty-four  hours  yon  '11  ride  it  about. 


80  NARRATIVE. 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  St.  Jone, 

I  did  not  think  it  could  be  gone  so  soone ! 

— Now  from  the  third  question  thou  must  not  shrinke, 

But  tell  me  here  truly  what  I  do  thinke. 

Yea,  that  shall  I  do,  and  make  your  grace  merry : 
You  thinke  I  'm  the  abbot  of  Canterbury ; 
But  I  'm  his  poor  shepheard,  as  plain  you  may  see, 
That  am  come  to  beg  pardon  for  him  and  for  mee. 

The  king  he  laughed,  and  swore  by  the  masse, 
He  make  thee  lord  abbot  this  day  in  his  place ! 
Now  naye,  my  liege,  be  not  in  such  speede, 
For  alacke  I  can  neither  write,  ne  reade. 

Four  nobles  a  week,  then,  I  will  give  thee, 
For  this  merry  jest  thou  hast  showne  unto  mee : 
And  tell  the  old  abbot,  when  thou  comest  home, 
Thou  hast  brought  him  a  pardon  from  good  King  John. 


THE  BAFFLED  KNIGHT,  OR  LADY'S  POLICY. 

[A  VERY    FAVORITE   ANCIENT    BALLAD.] 

PERCY   RELIQUES. 

* 

THERE  was  a  knight  was  drunk  with  wine, 

A  riding  along  the  way,  sir; 
And  there  he  met  with  a  lady  fine, 

Among  the  cocks  of  hay,  sir. 

Shall  you  and  I,  0  lady  faire, 

Among  the  grass  lye  down-a : 
And  I  will  have  a  special  care, 

Of  rumpling  of  your  gowne-a. 

Upon  the  grass  there  is  a  dewe, 

Will  spoil  my  damask  gowne,  sir  : 
My  gowne  and  kirtle  they  are  newe, 

And  cost  me  many  a  crowne,  sir. 


NARRATIVE.  81 


I  have  a  cloak  of  scarlet  red, 

Upon  the  ground  I  '11  throwe  it ; 

Then,  lady  faire,  come  lay  thy  head ; 
We  '11  play,  and  none  shall  knowe  it. 

0  yonder  stands  my  steed  so  free 
Among  the  cocks  of  hay,  sir, 

And  if  the  pinner  should  chance  to  see, 
He  '11  take  my  steed  away,  sir. 

Upon  my  finger  I  have  a  ring, 

Its  made  of  finest  gold-a, 
And,  lady,  it  thy  steed  shall  bring 

Out  of  the  pinner's  fold-a. 

O  go  with  me  to  my  father's  hall ; 

Fair  chambers  there  are  three,  sir : 
And  you  shall  have  the  best  of  all, 

And  I  '11  your  chamberlaine  bee,  sir. 

He  mounted  himself  on  his  steed  so  tall, 
And  her  on  her  dapple  gray,  sir : 

And  there  they  rode  to  her  father's  hall, 
Fast  pricking  along  the  way,  sir. 

To  her  father's  hall  they  arrived  strait ; 

'T  was  moated  round  about-a ; 
She  slipped  herself  within  the  gate, 

And  lockt  the  knight  without-a. 

Here  is  a  silver  penny  to  spend, 
And  take  it  for  your  pain,  sir ; 

And  two  of  my  father's  men  I  '11  send 
To  wait  on  you  back  again,  sir. 

He  from  his  scabbard  drew  his  brand, 
And  wiped  it  upon  his  sleeve-a ! 

And  cursed,  he  said,  be  every  man, 
That  will  a  maid  believe-a  1 

She  drew  a  bodkin  from  her  haire, 
And  wip'd  it  upon  her  gown-a  ; 

And  curs' d  be  every  maiden  faire, 
That  will  with  men  lye  down-a ! 

4* 


82  NARRATIVE. 

A  herb  there  is,  that  lowly  grows, 
And  some  do  call  it  rue,  sir : 

The  smallest  dunghill  cock  that  crows, 
Would  make  a  capon  of  you,  sir. 

A  flower  there  is,  that  shineth  bright, 
Some  call  it  mary-gold-a : 

He  that  wold  not  when  he  might, 
He  shall  not  when  he  wold-a. 

The  knight  was  riding  another  day, 
With  cloak,  and  hat,  and  feather: 

He  met  again  with  that  lady  gay, 
Who  was  angling  in  the  river. 

Now,  lady  faire,  I  've  met  with  you, 
You  shall  no  more  escape  me ; 

Kemember,  how  not  long  agoe 
You  falsely  did  intrap  me. 

He  from  his  saddle  down  did  light, 

In  all  his  riche  attyer  ; 
And  cryed,  As  I  'm  a  noble  knight, 

I  do  thy  charms  admyer. 

He  took  the  lady  by  the  hand, 
Who  seemingly  consented ; 

And  would  no  more  disputing  stand : 
She  had  a  plot  invented. 

Looke  yonder,  good  sir  knight,  I  pray, 
Methinks  I  now  discover 

A  riding  upon  his  dapple  gray, 
My  former  constant  lover. 

On  tip-toe  peering  stood  the  knight, 
Fast  by  the  rivers  brink-a ; 

The  lady  pusht  with  all  her  might : 
Sir  knight,  now  swim  or  sink-a. 

O'er  head  and  ears  he  plunged  in, 
The  bottom  faire  he  sounded ; 

Then  rising  up,  he  cried  amain, 

Help,  helpe,  or  else  I  'm  drownded  I 


NARRATIVE. 

Now,  fare-you-well,  sir  knight,  adieu  ! 

You  see  what  comes  of  fooling : 
That  is  the  fittest  place  for  you  ; 

Your  courage  wanted  cooling. 

Ere  many  days,  hi  her  fathers  park, 

Just  at  the  close  of  eve-a, 
Again  she  met  with  her  angry  sparke ; 

Which  made  this  lady  grieve-a. 

False  lady,  here  thou  'rt  in  my  powre, 
And  no  one  now  can  hear  thee  : 

And  thou  shalt  sorely  rue  the  hour 
That  e'er  thou  dar'dst  to  jeer  me. 

I  pray,  sir  knight,  be  not  so  warm 

With  a  young  silly  maid-a  : 
I  vow  and  swear  I  thought  no  harm, 

'Twas  a  gentle  jest  I  playd-a. 

A  gentle  jest,  in  soothe  he  cry'd, 
To  tumble  me  in  and  leave  me! 

What  if  I  had  in  the  river  dy'd  ? 

That  fetch  will  not  deceive  me. 

Once  more  I  '11  pardon  thee  this  day, 

Tho'  injur'd  out  of  measure ; 
But  thou  prepare  without  delay 

To  yield  thee  to  my  pleasure. 

Well  then,  if  I  must  grant  your  suit, 
Yet  think  of  your  boots  and  spurs,  sir 

Let  me  pull  off  both  spur  and  boot, 
Or  else  you  cannot  stir,  sir. 

He  set  him  down  upon  the  grass, 
And  begg'd  her  kind  assistance  : 

Now,  smiling,  thought  this  lovely  lass, 
I  '11  make  you  keep  your  distance. 

Then  pulling  off  his  boots  half-way  ; 

Sir  knight,  now  I  'm  your  betters : 
You  shall  not  make  of  me  your  prey ; 

Sit  there  like  a  knavo  in  fetters. 


84  NARRATIVE. 

The  knight,  when  she  had  served  him  soe, 
He  fretted,  fum'd,  and  grumbled  : 

For  he  could  neither  stand  nor  goe, 
But  like  a  cripple  tumbled. 

Farewell,  sir  knight,  the  clock  strikes  ten, 

Yet  do  not  move  nor  stir,  sir : 
I  '11  send  you  my  father's  serving  men, 

To  pull  off  your  boots  and  spurs,  sir. 

This  merry  jest  you  must  excuse, 

You  are  but  a  stingless  nettle : 
You  'd  never  have  stood  for  boots  or  shoes, 

Had  you  been  a  man  of  mettle. 

All  night  in  grievous  rage  he  lay, 

Rolling  upon  the  plain-a ; 
Next  morning  a  shepherd  past  that  way, 

Who  set  him  right  again-a. 

Then  mounting  upon  his  steed  so  tall, 

By  hill  and  dale  he  swore-a : 
I  '11  ride  at  once  to  her  father's  hall ; 

She  shall  escape  no  more-a. 

I  '11  take  her  father  by  the  beard, 

I  '11  challenge  all  her  kindred ; 
Each  dastard  soul  shall  stand  affeard  ; 

My  wrath  shall  no  more  be  hind  red. 

He  rode  unto  her  father's  house, 
Which  every  side  was  moated  : 

The  lady  heard  his  furious  vows, 
And  all  his  vengeance  noted. 

Thought  shee,  sir  knight,  to  quench  your  rage, 

Once  more  I  will  endeavour : 
This  water  shall  your  fury  'swage, 

Or  else  it  shall  burn  for  ever. 

Then  fain  ing  penitence  and  feare, 

She  did  invite  a  parley : 
Sir  knight,  if  you  '11  forgive  me  heare, 

Henceforth  I  '11  love  yon  dearly. 


NARRATIVE.  85 


My  father  he  is  now  from  home, 

And  I  am  all  alone,  sir : 
Therefore  across  the  water  come, 

And  I  am  all  your  own,  sir. 

False  maid,  thou  canst  no  more  deceive ; 

I  scorn  the  treacherous  bait-a ; 
If  thou  would'st  have  me  thee  believe, 

Now  open  me  the  gate-a. 

The  bridge  is  drawn,  the  gate  is  barr'd, 
My  father  he  has  the  keys,  sir ; 

But  I  have  for  my  love  prepar'd 
A  shorter  way,  and  easier. 

Over  the  moate  I've  laid  a  plank 
Full  seventeen  feet  in  measure, 

Then  step  across  to  the  other  bank, 
And  there  we  '11  take  our  pleasure. 

These  words  she  had  no  sooner  spoke, 
But  straight  he  came  tripping  over : 

The  plank  was  saw'd,  it  snapping  broke, 
And  sous'd  the  unhappy  lover. 


TRUTH    AND    FALSEHOOD. 

A   TALE. 

MATTHEW    PRIOR. 

ONCE  on  a  time,  in  sunshine  weather, 

Falsehood  and  Truth  walk'd  out  together, 

The  neighboring  woods  and  lawns  to  view, 

As  opposites  will  sometimes  do. 

Through  many  a  blooming  mead  they  passed. 

And  at  a  brook  arriv'd  at  last 

The  purling  stream,  the  margin  green, 

With  flowers  bedeck'd,  a  vernal  scene, 

Invited  each  itinerant  maid, 

To  rest  a  while  beneath  the  shade. 

Under  a  spreading  beach  they  sat, 

And  pass'd  the  time  with  female  chat ; 


86  NARRATIVE. 

Whilst  each  her  character  maintain' d  ; 
One  spoke  her  thoughts,  the  other  feign'd. 
At  length,  quoth  Falsehood,  sister  Truth 
(For  so  she  call'd  her  from  her  youth), 
What  if,  to  shun  yon  sultry  beam, 
We  bathe  in  this  delightful  stream ; 
The  bottom  smooth,  the  water  clear, 
And  there  's  no  prying  shepherd  near  ?- 
With  all  my  heart,  the  nymph  replied, 
And  threw  her  snowy  robes  aside, 
Stiipt  herself  naked  to  the  skin, 
And  with  a  spring  leapt  headlong  in. 
Falsehood  more  leisurely  undrest, 
And,  laying  by  her  tawdry  vest, 
Trick'd  herself  out  in  Truth's  array, 
And  'cross  the  meadows  tript  away. 

From  this  curst  hour,  the  fraudful  dame 
Of  sacred  Truth  usurps  the  name, 
And,  with  a  vile,  perfidious  mind, 
Roams  far  and  near,  to  cheat  mankind  ; 
False  sighs  suborns,  and  artful  tears, 
And  starts  with  vain  pretended  fears ; 
In  visits,  still  appears  most  wise, 
And  rolls  at  church  her  saint-like  eyes ; 
Talks  very  much,  plays  idle  tricks, 
While  rising  stock*  her  conscience  pricks ; 
When  being,  poor  thing,  extremely  gravel'd, 
The  secrets  op'd,  and  all  unravel'd. 
But  on  she  will,  and  secrets  tell 
Of  John  and  Joan,  and  Ned  and  Nell, 
Reviling  every  one  she  know^, 
As  fancy  leads,  beneath  the  rose. 
Her  tongue,  so  voluble  and  kind, 
It  always  runs  before  her  mind ; 
As  times  do  serve,  she  slyly  pleads, 
And  copious  tears  still  show  her  needs. 
With  promises  as  thick  as  weeds — 
Speaks  pro  and  con.,  is  wondrous  civil, 
To-day  a  saint,  to-morrow  devil. 

Poor  Truth  she  stript,  as  has  been  said, 
And  naked  left  the  lovely  maid, 
*  South  Sea,  1720. 


NARRATIVE.  87 


Who,  scorning  from  her  cause  to  wince, 
Has  gone  stark-naked  ever  since  ; 
And  ever  naked  will  appear, 
Belov'd  by  all  who  Truth  revere. 


FLATTERY. 

A   FABLE. 
SIR    CHARLES    HANBURY    WILLIAMS. 

FANNY,  beware  of  flattery, 
Your  sex's  much-lov'd  enemy ; 
For  other  foes  we  are  prepar'd, 
And  Nature  puts  us  on  our  guard : 
In   that  alone  such  charms  are  found, 
We  court  the  dart,  we  nurse  the  hand ; 
And  this,  my  child,  an  ^Bsop's  Fable 
Will  prove  much  better  than  I  'm  able. 

A  young  vain  female  Crow, 

Had  perch' d  upon  a  pine  tree's  bough, 

And  sitting  there  at  ease, 
Was  going  to  indulge  her  taste, 
In  a  most  delicious  feast, 

Consisting  of  a  slice  of  cheese. 
A  sharp-set  Fox  (a  wily  creature) 
Pass'd  by  that  way 
In  search  of  prey ; 

When  to  his  nose  the  smell  of  cheese, 
Came  in  a  gentle  western  breeze ; 
No  Welchrnan  knew,  or  lov'd  it  better : 
He  bless'd  th'  auspicious  wind, 
And  strait  look'd  round  to  find, 
What  might  his  hungry  stomach  fill, 
And  quickly  spied  the  Crow, 
Upon  a  lofty  bough, 

Holding  the  tempting  prize  within  her  bill. 
But  she  was  pcrch'd  too  high, 
Arid  Reynard  could  not  fly  : 


88  NARRATIVE. 

She  chose  the  tallest  tree  in  all  the  wood, 
What  then  could  bring  her  down  ? 
Or  make  the  prize  his  own  ? 
Nothing  but  flatt'ry  could. 
He  soon  the  silence  broke, 
And  thus  ingenious  hunger  spoke : 
"  Oh,  lovely  bird, 
Whose  glossy  plumage  oft  has  stirr'd 

The  envy  of  the  grove  ; 
Thy  form  was  Nature's  pleasing  care, 
So  bright  a  bloom,  so  soft  an  air, 

All  that  behold  must  love. 
But,  if  to  suit  a  form  like  thine, 
Thy  voice  be  as  divine  ; 

If  both  in  these  together  meet, 
The  feather'd  race  must  own 
Of  all  their  tribe  there's  none, 

Of  form  so  fair,  of  voice  so  sweet. 
Who  '11  then  regard  the  linnet's  note, 
Or  heed  the  lark's  melodious  throat  ? 
What  pensive  lovers  then  shall  dwell 
With  raptures  on  their  Philomel  ? 
The  goldfinch  shall  his  plumage  hide, 
The  swan  abate  her  stately  pride, 
And  Juno's  bird  no  more  display 
His  various  glories  to  the  sunny  day : 
Then  grant  thy  Suppliant's  prayer, 
And  bless  my  longing  ear 
With  notes  that  I  would  die  to  hear!" 
Flattery  prevail'd,  the  Crow  believ'd 
The  tale,  and  was  with  joy  deceiv'd ; 
In  haste  to  show  her  want  of  skill, 
She  open'd  wide  her  bill : 

She  scream'd  as  if  the  de'el  was  in  her 
Her  vanity  became  so  strong 
That,  wrapt  in  her  own  frightful  song, 

She  quite  forgot,  and  dropt  her  dinner : 
The  morsel  fell  quick  by  the  place 
Where  Reynard  lay, 
Who  seized  the  prey 
And  eat  it  without  saying  grace. 


NAEBATIVE.  89 

He,  sneezing,  cried  "  The  day's  my  own, 
My  end's  obtain' d, 
The  prize  is  gain'd, 
And  now  I  '11  change  my  note. 
Vain,  foolish,  cheated  Crow, 
Lend  your  attention  now, 
A  truth  or  two  I  '11  tell  you  ! 
For,  since  I  've  fill'd  my  belly, 

Of  course  my  flatt'ry's  done : 
Think  you  I  took  such  pains, 
And  spoke  so  well  only  to  hear  you  croak  ? 
No,  'twas  the  luscious  bait, 
And  a  keen  appetite  to  eat, 
That  first  inspir'd,  and  carried  on  the  cheat. 
'T  was  hunger  furnish' d  hands  and  matter, 
Flatterers  must  live  by  those  they  flatter ; 
But  weep  not,  Crow ;  a  tongue  like  mine 
Might  turn  an  abler  head  than  thine ; 

And  though  reflection  may  displease, 
If  wisely  you  apply  your  thought, 
To  learn  the  lesson  I  have  taught, 
Experience,  sure,  is  cheaply  bought, 

And  richly  worth  a  slice  of  cheese." 


THE  PIG  AND  MAGPIE. 

PETER   PINDAR. 

COCKING  his  tail,  a  saucy  prig, 
A  Magpie  hopped  upon  a  Pig, 

To  pull  some  hair,  forsooth,  to  line  his  nest  ; 
And  with  such  ease  began  the  hair  attack, 
As  thinking  the  fee  simple  of  the  back 

Was  by  himself,  and  not  the  Pig,  possessed. 

The  Boar  looked  up  as  thunder  black  to  Mag, 
Who,  squinting  down  on  him  like  an  arch  wag, 

Informed  Mynheer  some  bristles  must  be  torn ; 
Then  briskly  went  to  work,  not  nicely  culling : 
Got  a  good  handsome  beakful  by  good  pulling, 

And  flew,  without  a  "  Thank  ye"  to  Ids  thorn. 


90  NARRATIVE. 

The  Pig  set  up  a  dismal  yelling : 
Followed  the  robber  to  his  dwelling, 

Who  like  a  fool  had  built  it  'midst  a  bramble  : 
In  manfully  he  sallied,  full  of  might, 
Determined  to  obtain  his  right, 

And  'midst  the  bushes  now  began  to  scramble. 

He  drove  the  Magpie,  tore  his  nest  to  rags, 
And,  happy  on  the  downfall,  poured  his  brags : 

But  ere  he  from  the  brambles  came,  alack ! 
His  ears  and  eyes  were  miserably  torn, 
His  bleeding  hide  in  such  a  plight  forlorn, 

He  could  not  count  ten  hairs  upon  his  back. 


ADVICE  TO  YOUNG   WOMEN; 

OR,    THE    ROSE   AND    STRAWBERRY. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

YOUNG  women  !  don't  be  fond  of  killing, 

Too  well  I  know  your  hearts  unwilling 
To  hide  beneath  the  vail  a  charm — 

Too  pleased  a  sparkling  eye  to  roll, 

And  with  a  neck  to  thrill  the  soul 
Of  every  swain  with  love's  alarm. 

Yet,  yet,  if  prudence  be  not  near 
Its  snow  may  melt  into  a  tear. 

The  dimple  smile,  and  pouting  lip, 

Where  little  Cupids  nectar  sip, 
Are  very  pretty  lures  I  own : 

But,  ah  !    if  prudence  be  not  nigh, 

Those  lips  where  all  the  Cupids  lie, 
May  give  a  passage  to  a  groan. 

A  Rose,  in  all  the  pride  of  bloom, 

Flinging  around  her  rich  perfume, 
Her  form  to  public  notice  pushing, 

Amid  the  summer's  golden  glow, 

Peeped  on  a  Strawberry  below, 
Beneath  a  leaf,  in  secret  blushing. 


NARRATIVE.  91 

"  Miss  Strawberry,"  exclaimed  the  Rose, 

"  What 's  beauty  that  no  mortal  knows  ? 
What  is  a  charm,  if  never  seen  ? 

You  really  are  a  pretty  creature  : 

Then  wherefore  hide  each  blooming  feature  ? 
Come  up,  and  show  your  modest  mien." 

"  Miss  Rose,"  the  Strawberry  replied, 

"  I  never  did  possess  a  pride 
That  wished  to  dash  the  public  eye : 

Indeed,  I  own  that  I  'm  afraid — 

I  think  there 's  safety  in  the  shade, 
Ambition  causes  many  a  sigh." 

"  Go,  simple  child,"  the  Rose  rejoined, 

"  See  how  I  wanton  in  the  wind  : 
I  feel  no  danger's  dread  alarms  : 

And  then  observe  the  god  of  day, 

How  amorous  with  his  golden  ray, 
To  pay  his  visits  to  my  charms!" 

No  sooner  said,  but  with  a  scream 

She  started  from  her  favorite  theme — 
A  clown  had  on  her  fixed  his  pat. 

In  vain  she  screeched — Hob  did  but  smile  ; 

Rubbed  with  her  leaves  his  nose  awhile, 
Then  bluntly  stuck  her  in  his  hat. 


ECONOMY. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

ECONOMY'S  a  very  useful  broom ; 

Yet  should  not  ceaseless  hunt  about  the  room 

To  catch  each  straggling  pin  to  make  a  plumb : 
Too  oft  Economy's  an  iron  vice, 
That  squeezes  even  the  little  guts  of  mice, 

That  peep  with  fearful  eyes,  and  ask  a  crumb. 

Proper  Economy's  a  comely  thing — 
Good  in  a  subject — better  in  a  king ; 


92  NARRATIVE. 

Yet  pushed  too  far,  it  dulls  each  finer  feeling — 
Most  easily  inclined  to  make  folks  mean ; 
Inclines  them  too,  to  villainy  to  lean, 

To  over-reaching,  perjury,  and  stealing. 

Even  when  the  heart  should  only  think  of 
It  creeps  into  the  bosom  like  a  thief, 
And  swallows  up  th'  affections  all  so  mild — 
Witness  the  Jewess,  and  her  only  child : — 


THE    JEWESS    AND    HER    SON. 

Poor  Mistress  Levi  had  a  luckless  son, 

Who,  rushing  to  obtain  the  foremost  seat, 

In  imitation  of  th'  ambitious  great, 
High  from  the  gallery,  ere  the  play  begun, 

He  fell  all  plump  into  the  pit, 

Dead  in  a  minute  as  a  nit : 
In  short,  he  broke  his  pretty  Hebrew  neck ; 
Indeed  and  very  dreadful  was  the  wreck ! 

The  mother  was  distracted,  raving,  wild — 
Shrieked,  tore  her  hair,  embraced  and  kissed  her  child- 
Afflicted  every  heart  with  grief  around : 
Soon  as  the  shower  of  tears  was  somewhat  past, 
And  moderately  calm  th'  hysteric  blast, 

She  cast  about  her  eyes  in  thought  profound  • 
And  being  with  a  saving  knowledge  blessed, 
She  thus  the  playhouse  manager  addressed : 

"  Shcr,  I  'm  de  moder  of  de  poor  Chew  lad, 
Dat  meet  mishfartin  here  so  bad — 
Sher,  I  muss  haf  de  shilling  back,  you  know, 
Asa  Moses  haf  not  see  de  show." 

But  as  for  Avarice,  'tis  the  very  devil ; 
The  fount,  alas !   of  every  evil : 

The  cancer  of  the  heart — the  worst  of  ills : 
Wherever  sown,  luxuriantly  it  thrives ; 
No  flower  of  virtue  near  it  lives : 

Like  aconite,  where'er  it  spreads,  it  kills. 


NARRATIVE.  93 

In  every  soil  behold  the  poison  spring ! 
Can  taint  the  beggar,  and  infect  the  king. 

The  mighty  Maryborough  pilfered  cloth  and  bread ; 

So  says  that  gentle  satirist  Squire  Pope ; 
And  Peterborough's  Earl  upon  this  head, 

Affords  us  little  room  to  hope, 
That  what  the  Twitnam  bard  avowed, 
Might  not  be  readily  allowed. 


THE    COUNTRY    LASSES. 

PETER   PINDAR. 
Peter  lasheth  the  Ladies.— He  turneth  Story-teller.— Peter  grieveth. 

ALTHOUGH  the  ladies  with  such  beauty  blaze, 

They  very  frequently  my  passion  raise — 
Their  charms  compensate,  scarce,  their  want  of  taste. 

Passing  amidst  the  Exhibition  crowd, 

I  heard  some  damsels  fashionably  loud ; 
And  thus  I  give  the  dialogue  that  pass'd. 

"  Oh !  the  dear  man !"  cried  one,  "  look !  here's  a  bonnet  1 
He  shall  paint  me — I  am  determin'd  on  it — 

Lord !  cousin,  see  !  how  beautiful  the  gown  ! 
What  charming  colors !  here 's  fine  lace,  here  's  gauze  ! 
What  pretty  sprigs  the  fellow  draws  ! 

Lord,  cousin  1  he's  the  cleverest  man  in  town!" 

"  Ay,  cousin,"  cried  a  second,  "  very  true —    • 
And  here,  here's  charming  green,  and  red,  and  blue ! 

There 's  a  complexion  beats  the  rouge  of  Warren  I 
See  those  red  lips ;  oh,  la !  they  seem  so  nice  ! 
What  rosy  cheeks  then,  cousin,  to  entice  ! — 

Compar'd  to  this,  all  other  heads  are  carrion. 

Cousin,  this  limner  quickly  will  be  seen, 
Painting  the  Princess  Royal,  and  the  Queen : 
Pray,  don't  you  think  as  I  do,  Coz  ? 
But  we  '11  be  painted  first  that's  poz." 


94  NARRATIVE. 

Such  was  the  very  pretty  conversation 
That  pass'd  between  the  pretty  misses, 

While  unobserv'd,  the  glory  of  our  nation, 

Close  by  them  hung  Sir  Joshua's  matchless  pieces. 

Works !  that  a  Titian's  hand  could  form  alone — 

Works !  that  a  Reubens  had  been  proud  to  own. 

Permit  me,  ladies,  now  to  lay  before  ye 

What  lately  happen' d — therefore  a  true  story  :— 


A   STORY. 

Walking  one  afternoon  along  the  Strand, 

My  wond'ring  eyes  did  suddenly  expand 

Upon  a  pretty  leash  of  country  lasses. 

"  Heav'ns !  my  dear  beauteous  angels,  how  d'ye  do  ? 

Upon  my  soul  I  'm  monstrous  glad  to  see  ye." 
"  Swinge  !  Peter,  we  are  glad  to  meet  with  you  ; 

We're  just  to  London  come — well,  pray  how  be  ye ; 

"  We're  just  a  going,  while  'tis  light, 

To  see  St.  Paul's  before  'tis  dark. 
Lord  !  come,  for  once,  be  so  polite, 

And  condescend  to  be  our  spark." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  my  angels." — On  we  walk'd, 
And  much  of  London — much  of  Cornwall  talk'd. 

Now  did  I  hug  myself  to  think 
How  much  that  glorious  structure  would  suiprise , 

How  from  its  awful  grandeur  they  would  shrink 
With  open  mouths,  and  marv'ling  eyes ! 

As  near  to  Ludgate-Hill  we  drew, 

St.  Paul's  just  opening  on  our  view ; 

Behold,  my  lovely  strangers,  one  and  all, 

Gave,  all  at  once,  a  diabolic  squawl, 

As  if  they  had  been  tumbled  on  the  stones, 

And  some  confounded  cart  had  crush'd  their  bones. 

After  well  fright'ning  people  with  their  cries, 
And  sticking  to  a  ribbon-shop  their  eyes, 


NARRATIVE.  95 

They  all  rush'd  in,  with  sounds  enough  to  stun, 
And  clattering  all  together,  thus  begun : — 

"  Swinge  !  here  are  colors  then,  to  please  ! 

Delightful  things,  I  vow  to  heav'n ! 
Why  !  not  to  see  such  things  as  these, 

We  never  should  have  been  forgiv'n. 

"  Here,  here,  are  clever  things — good  Lord  ! 
And,  sister,  here,  upon  my  word — 
Here,  here ! — look !  here  are  beauties  to  delight : 
Why!  how  a  body's  heels  might  dance     ^ 
Along  from  Launceston  to  Penzance, 
Before  that  one  might  meet  with  such  a  sight !" 

"Come,  ladies,  'twill  be  dark,"  cried  I— "I  fear: 

Pray  let  us  view  St.  Paul's,  it  is  so  near" — 

"  Lord!  Peter,"  cried  the  girls,  "  don't  mind  St.  Paul ! 

Sure  !  you're  a  most  incurious  soul — 

Why — we  can  see  the  church  another  day ; 

Don't  be  afraid — St.  Paul's  can't  run  away" 

Reader, 

If  e'er  thy  bosom  felt  a  thought  sublime, 
Drop  tears  of  pity  with  the  man  of  rhyme  ! 


THE    PILGRIMS    AND    THE    PEAS. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

Peter  continueth  to  give  great  Advice,  and  to  exhibit  deep  reflection — He  tclletb 
a  miraculous  Story. 

TIFERE  is  a  knack  in  doing  many  a  thing, 
Which  labor  can  not  to  perfection  bring: 
Therefore,  however  great  in  your  own  eyes, 
Pray  do  not  hints  from  other  folks  despise: 

A  fool  on  something  great,  at  times,  may  stumble, 

And  consequently  be  a  good  adviser : 
On  which,  forever,  your  wise  men  may  fumble, 

And  never  be  a  whit  the  wiser. 


96  NARRATIVE. 

Yes  I  I  advise  you,  for  there 's  wisdom  in 't, 
Never  to  be  superior  to  a  hint — 

The  genius  of  each  man,  with  keenness  view — 
A  spark  from  this,  or  t'other,  caught, 
May  kindle,  quick  as  thought, 

A  glorious  bonfire  up  in  you. 

A  question  of  you  let  me  beg — 

Of  fam'd  Columbus  and  his  egg, 

Pray,  have  you  heard?     "  Yes." — O,  then,  if  you  please 
I  '11  give  you  the  two  Pilgrims  and  the  Peas. 


THE    PILGRIMS    AND    THE    PEAS. 

A   TRUE  STORY. 

A  brace  of  sinners,  for  no  good, 

Were  order' d  to  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine, 

Who  at  Loretto  dwelt,  in  wax,  stone,  wood, 
And  in  a  fair  white  wig  look'd  wondrous  fine. 

Fifty  long  miles  had  those  sad  rogues  to  travel, 
With  something  in  their  shoes  much  worse  than  gravel 
In  short,  their  toes  so  gentle  to  amuse, 
The  priest  had  order'd  peas  into  their  shoes  : 

A  nostrum  famous  in  old  Popish  times 
For  purifying  souls  that  stunk  of  crimes : 

A  sort  of  apostolic  salt, 

Which  Popish  parsons  for  its  powers  exalt, 
For  keeping  souls  of  sinners  sweet, 
Just  as  our  kitchen  salt  keeps  meat. 

The  knaves  set  off  on  the  same  day, 
Peas  in  their  shoes,  to  go  and  pray : 

But  very  diff' rent  was  their  speed,  I  wot : 
One  of  the  sinners  gallop'd  on, 
Swift  as  a  bullet  from  a  gun ; 

The  other  limp'd,  as  if  he  had  been  shot 

One  saw  the  Virgin  soon— peccavi  cried — 
Had  his  soul  white- wash'd  all  so  clever ; 

Then  home  again  he  nimbly  hied, 

Made  fit,  with  saints  above,  to  live  forever. 


NARRATIVE.  97 

In  coming  back,  however,  let  me  say, 

He  met  his  brother  rogue  about  half  way — 

Hobbling,  with  out-stretch' d  hands  and  bending  knees; 

Damning  the  souls  and  bodies  of  the  peas  : 

His  eyes  in  tears,  his  cheeks  and  brows  in  sweat, 

Deep  sympathizing  with  his  groaning  feet. 

"  How  now,"  the  light-toed,  white-wash'd  pilgrim  broke, 

"  You  lazy  lubber !" 

"  Ods  curse  it,"  cried  the  other,  "'tis  no  joke — 
My  feet,  once  hard  as  any  rock, 

Are  now  as  soft  as  any  blubber. 

"  Excuse  me,  Virgin  Mary,  that  I  swear — 
As  for  Loretto  I  shall  not  get  there  ; 
No !  to  the  Dcv'l  my  sinful  soul  must  go, 
For  damme  if  I  ha'nt  lost  ev'ry  toe. 

"But,  brother  sinner,  pray  explain 
How  'tis  that  you  are  not  in  pain : 

What  pow'r  hath  work'd  a  wonder  for  yoar  toes: 
While  /,  just  like  a  snail  am  crawling, 
Now  swearing,  now  on  saints  devoutly  bawling, 

While  not  a  rascal  comes  to  ease  my  woes  ? 

"  How  is't  that  you  can  like  a  greyhound  go, 

Merry,  as  if  that  naught  had  happen' d,  burn  ye  ?" 
"  Why,"  cried  the  other,  grinning,  "  you  must  know, 
That  just  before  I  ventur'd  on  my  journey, 
To  walk  a  little  more  at  ease, 
I  took  the  liberty  to  boil  my  peas.' " 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  CAT, 

DROWNED    IN    A   TUB    OF    GOLDFISHES. 

T1IOMAS   GRAY. 

'T  WAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined, 

Gazed  on  the  lake  belo\v. 
5 


98  NARKATIVE. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  ; 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw,  and  purred  applause. 

Still  had  she  gaz'd,  but,  'midst  the  tide, 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 

The  Genii  of  the  stream : 
Their  scaly  armor's  Tyrian  hue, 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw  : 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw, 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize : 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  Cat 's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent, 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between : 
(Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled ; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood, 
She  mewed  to  every  watery  god 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  or  Susan  heard  : 

A  fav'rite  has  no  friend  1 

Prom  hence,  ye  Beauties !    undeceived, 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 

And  be  with  caution  bold  : 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes, 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all  that  glistens  gold. 


NARRATIVE.  99 

THE  RETIRED, CAT. 

WILLIAM    COWPEK. 

A  POET'S  Cat,  sedate  and  grave 

As  poet  well  could  wish  to  have, 

Was  much  addicted  to  inquire 

For  nooks  to  which  she  might  retire, 

And  where,  secure  as  mouse  in  chink, 

She  might  repose,  or  sit  and  think. 

I  know  not  where  she  caught  the  trick ; 

Nature  perhaps  herself  had  cast  her 

In  such  a  mold  PIIILOSOPHIQUE, 

Or  else  she  learned  it  of  her  master. 

Sometimes  ascending,  debonair, 

An  apple-tree,  or  lofty  pear, 

Lodged  with  convenience  in  the  fork, 

She  watched  the  gardener  at  his  work ; 

Sometimes  her  ease  and  solace  sought 

In  an  old  empty  watering-pot, 

There  wanting  nothing,  save  a  fan, 

To  seem  some  nymph  in  her  sedan, 

Appareled  in  exactest  sort, 

And  ready  to  be  borne  to  court. 

But  love  of  change  it  seems  has  place 
Not  only  in  our  wiser  race  ; 
Cats  also  feel,  as  well  as  we, 
That  passion's  force,  and  so  did  she. 
Her  climbing,  she  began  to  find, 
Exposed  her  too  much  to  the  wind, 
And  the  old  utensil  of  tin 
Was  cold  and  comfortless  within  : 
She  therefore  wished,  instead  of  those, 
Some  place  of  more  serene  repose, 
Where  neither  cold  might  come,  nor  air 
Too  rudely  wanton  in  her  hair, 
And  sought  it  in  the  likeliest  mode 
WitSin  her  master's  snug  abode. 

A  drawer,  it  chanced,  at  bottom  lined 
With  linen  of  the  softest  kind, 


100  NARRATIVE. 

With  such  as  merchants  introduce 
From  India,  for  the  ladies'  use  ; 
A  drawer,  impending  o'er  the  rest, 
Half  open,  in  the  topmost  chest, 
Of  depth  enough,  and  none  to  spare, 
Invited  her  to  slumber  there  ; 
Puss  with  delight  beyond  expression, 
Surveyed  the  scene  and  took  possession. 
Recumbent  at  her  ease,  ere  long, 
And  lulled  by  her  own  humdrum  song, 
She  left  the  cares  of  life  behind, 
And  slept  as  she  would  sleep  her  last, 
When  in  came,  housewifely  inclined, 
The  chambermaid,  and  shut  it  fast, 
By  no  malignity  impelled, 
But  all  unconscious  whom  it  held. 

Awakened  by  the  shock  (cried  puss) 
"  Was  ever  cat  attended  thus ! 
The  open  drawer  was  left,  I  see, 
Merely  to  prove  a  nest  for  me, 
For  soon  as  I  was  well  composed, 
Then  came  the  maid,  and  it  was  closed. 
How  smooth  those  'kerchiefs,  and  how  sweet ! 
Oh  what  a  delicate  retreat ! 
I  will  resign  myself  to  rest 
Till  Sol  declining  in  the  west, 
Shall  call  to  supper,  when,  no  doubt, 
Susan  will  come,  and  let  me  out." 

The  evening  came,  the  sun  descended, 
And  puss  remained  still  unattended. 
The  night  rolled  tardily  away 
(With  her  indeed  't  was  never  day), 
The  sprightly  morn  her  course  renewed, 
The  evening  gray  again  ensued, 
And  puss  came  into  mind  no  more 
Than  if  entombed  the  day  before ; 
With  hunger  pinched,  and  pinched  for  room, 
She  now  presaged  approaching  doom. 
Nor  slept  a  single  wink,  nor  purred, 
Conscious  of  jeopardy  incurred. 


NARRATIVE.  101 

That  night,  by  chance,  the  poet,  watching, 
Heard  an  inexplicable  scratching ; 
His  noble  heart  went  pit-a-pat, 
And  to  himself  he  said— "  What 's  that  ?" 
He  drew  the  curtain  at  liis  side, 
And  forth  he  peeped,  but  nothing  spied. 
Yet,  by  his  ear  directed,  guessed 
Something  imprisoned  in  the  chest ; 
And,  doubtful  what,  with  prudent  care 
Resolved  it  should  continue  there. 
At  length  a  voice  which  well  he  knew, 
A  long  and  melancholy  mew, 
Saluting  his  poetic  ears, 
Consoled  him,  and  dispelled  his  fears ; 
He  left  his  bed,  he  trod  the  floor, 
He  'gan  in  haste  the  drawers  explore, 
The  lowest  first,  and  without  stop 
The  next  in  order  to  the  top. 
For  'tis  a  truth  well  know  to  most, 
That  whatsoever  thing  is  lost, 
We  seek  it,  ere  it  come  to  light, 
In  eveiy  cranny  but  the  right. 
Forth  skipped  the  cat,  not  now  replete 
As  erst  with  airy  self-conceit, 
Nor  in  her  own  fond  comprehension, 
A  theme  for  all  the  world's  attention, 
But  modest,  sober,  cured  of  all 
Her  notions  hyperbolical, 
And  wishing  for  a  place  of  rest, 
Any  thing  rather  than  a  chest 
Then  stepped  the  poet  into  bed 
With  this  reflection  in  his  head : 


Beware  of  too  sublime  a  sense 
Of  your  own  worth  and  consequence. 
The  man  who  dreams  himself  so  great, 
And  his  importance  of  such  weight, 
That  all  around  in  all  that 's  done 
Must  move  and  act  for  him  alone, 
Will  learn  in  school  of  tribulation 
The  folly  of  his  expectation. 


102  NARRATIVE. 


SAYING    NOT    MEANING. 

WILLIAM    BASIL    WAKK 

Two  gentlemen  their  appetite  had  fed, 

When  opening  his  toothpick-case,  one  said, 

"  It  was  not  until  lately  that  I  knew 

That  anchovies  on  terra  firma  grew. 

"Grow!"  cried  the  other,  "yes,  they  grow,  indeed, 

Like  other  fish,  but  not  upon  the  land  ; 
You  might  as  well  say  grapes  grow  on  a  reed, 

Or  in  the  Strand !" 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  the  irritated  other, 

"  My  brother, 
When  at  Calcutta 
Beheld  them  bona  fide  growing ; 

He  would  n't  utter 
A  lie  for  love  or  money,  sir ;  so  in 

This  matter  you  are  thoroughly  mistaken." 
"  Nonsense,  sir !  nonsense  1     I  can  give  no  credit 
To  the  assertion — none  e'er  saw  or  read  it ; 

Your  brother,  like  his  evidence,  should  be  shaken." 

"  Be  shaken,  sir !  let  me  observe,  you  are 

Perverse — in  short — " 
"  Sir,"  said  the  other,  sucking  his  cigar, 

And  then  his  port — 
"  If  you  will  say  impossibles  are  true, 

You  may  affirm  just  any  thing  you  please — 
That  swans  are  quadrupeds,  and  lions  blue,  v 

And  elephants  inhabit  Stilton  cheese  ! 
Only  you  must  not  force  me  to  believe 
What's  propagated  merely  to  deceive." 

"  Then  you  force  me  to  say,  sir,  you're  a  fool," 

Re  turn' d  the  bragger. 
Language  like  this  no  man  can  suffer  cool : 

It  made  the  listener  stagger  ; 
So,  thunder-stricken,  he  at  once  replied, 

"  The  traveler  lied 


XAKitATIVE.  103 

Who  had  tho  impudence  to  tell  it  you  ;" 
"  Zounds  1  tlicn  d'ye  moan  to  swear  before  my  face 
That  anchovies  dont  grow  like  cloves  and  mace  ?" 
"I  do!" 


Disputants  often  after  hot  debates 

Leave  the  contention  as  they  found  it — bone, 
And  take  to  duelling  or  thumping  tetes  ; 

Thinking  by  strength  of  artery  to  atone 
For  strength  of  argument ;  and  he  who  winces 
From  force  of  words,  with  force  of  arms  convinces  1 


With  pistols,  powder,  bullets,  surgeons,  lint, 

Seconds,  and  smelling-bottles,  and  foreboding, 

Our  friends  advanced ;  and  now  portentous  loading 
(Their  hearts  already  loaded)  serv'd  to  show 
It  might  be  better  they  shook  hands — but  no  ; 

When  each  opines  liimself,  though  frighten'd,  right, 

Each  is,  in  courtesy,  oblig'd  to  fight ! 
And  they  did  fight :  from  six  full  measured  paces 

The  unbeliever  pulled  his  trigger  first ; 
And  fearing,  from  the  braggart's  ugly  faces, 

The  whizzing  lead  had  whizz'd  its  very  worst, 
Ran  up,  and  with  a  duelistic  fear 

(His  ire  evanishing  like  morning  vapors), 
Found  him  possess'd  of  one  remaining  ear, 

Who  in  a  manner  sudden  and  uncouth, 

Had  given,  not  lent,  the  other  ear  to  truth; 
For  while  the  surgeon  was  applying  lint, 
He,  wriggling,  cried — "  The  deuce  is  in't — 

"  Sir  I  I  meant — CAPERS  !" 


101  NARRATIVE. 


JULIA. 

SAMUEL    TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 

mcdiu  de  fonto  Icporum 

Surgit  amari  aliquid. — Lucret. 

JULIA  was  blest  with  beauty,  wit,  and  grace : 

Small  poets  loved  to  sing  her  blooming  face. 

Before  her  altars,  lo  !  a  numerous  train 

Preferr'd  their  vows ;  yet  all  preferr'd  in  vain : 

Till  charming  Florio,  born  to  conquer,  came, 

And  touch'd  the  fair  one  with  an  equal  flame. 

The  flame  she  felt,  and  ill  could  she  conceal 

What  every  look  and  action  would  reveal. 

With  boldness  then,  which  seldom  fails  to  move, 

He  pleads  the  cause  of  marriage  and  of  love ; 

The  course  of  hymeneal  joys  he  rounds, 

The  fair  one's  eyes  dance  pleasure  at  the  sounds. 

Naught  now  remain'd  but  "Noes" — how  little  meant- 

And  the  sweet  coyness  that  endears  consent. 

The  youth  upon  his-  knees  enraptured  fell : — 

The  strange  misfortune,  oh !  what  words  can  tell  ? 

Tell !  ye  neglected  sylphs !  who  lap-dogs  guard, 

Why  snatch'd  ye  not  away  your  precious  ward  ? 

Why  sufTer'd  ye  the  lover's  weight  to  fall 

On  the  ill-fated  neck  of  much-loved  Ball? 

The  favorite  on  his  mistress  casts  his  eyes, 

Gives  a  melancholy  howl,  and — dies ! 

Sacred  his  ashes  lie,  and  long  his  rest  1 

Anger  and  grief  divide  poor  Julia's  breast, 

Her  eyes  she  fix'd  on  guilty  Florio  first, 

On  him  the  storm  of  angry  grief  must  burst. 

That  storm  he  fled : — he  woos  a  kinder  fair, 

Whose  fond  affections  no  dear  puppies  share. 

'T  were  vain  to  tell  how  Julia  pined  away ;  — 

Unhappy  fair,  that  in  one  luckless  day 

(From  future  almanacs  the  day  be  cross'd !) 

At  once  her  lover  and  her  lap-dog  lost ! 


NARRATIVE.  105 

A    COCK    AND    HEN    STORY. 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

PART    I. 

ONCE  on  a  time  three  Pilgrims  true, 

Being  Father  and  Mother  and  Son, 

For  pure  devotion  to  the  Saint, 

A  pilgrimage  begun. 

Their  names,  little  friends,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 

In  none  of  my  books  can  I  find ; 
But  the  son,  if  you  please,  we  '11  call  Pierre, 

What  the  parents  were  called,  never  mind. 

From  France  they  came,  in  which  fair  land 

They  were  people  of  good  renown ; 

And  they  took  up  their  lodging  one  night  on  the  way 

In  La  Calzada  town. 

Now,  if  poor  Pilgrims  they  had  been, 
And  had  lodged  in  the  Hospice  instead  of  the  Inn, 

My  good  little  women  and  men, 
Why  then  you  never  would  have  heard, 
This  tale  of  the  Cock  and  the  Hen. 

For  the  Innkeepers  they  had  a  daughter, 
Sad  to  say,  who  was  just  such  another 
As  Potiphar's  daughter,  I  think,  would  have  been 
If  she  followed  the  ways  of  her  mother. 

This  wicked  woman  to  our  Pierre 

Behaved  like  Potiphar's  wife; 

And  because  she  failed  to  win  his  love, 

She  resolved  to  take  his  life. 

So  she  packed  up  a  silver  cup 

In  his  wallet  privily ; 
And  then,  as  soon  as  they  were  gone, 
She  raised  a  hue  and  cry. 


106          •  NAKEATIVE. 

The  Pilgrims  were  overtaken, 
The  people  gathered  round, 
Their  wallets  were  searched,  and  in  Pierre's 
The  silver  cup  was  found. 

They  dragged  him  before  the  Alcayde ; 

A  hasty  Judge  was  he, 
"  The  theft,"  he  said,  "  was  plain  and  proved, 

And  hang'd  the  thief  must  be." 
So  to  the  gallows  our  poor  Pierre 
Was  hurried  instantly. 

If  I  should  now  relate 
The  piteous  lamentation, 
Which  for  their  son  these  parents  made, 
My  little  friends,  I  am  afraid 
You  'd  weep  at  the  relation. 

But  Pierre  in  Santiago  still 
His  constant  faith  profess'd ; 

When  to  the  gallows  he  was  led, 
"'T  was  a  short  way  to  Heaven,"  he  said, 

"  Though  not  the  pleasantest." 

And  from  their  pilgrimage  he  charged 

His  parents  not  to  cease, 
Saying  that  unless  they  promised  this, 
He  could  not  be  hanged  in  peace. 

They  promised  it  with  heavy  hearts ; 

Pierre  then,  therewith  content, 

Was  hang'd  :  and  they  upon  their  way 

To  Compostella  went. 


PART    II. 

Four  weeks  they  travel'd  painfully, 

They  paid  their  vows,  and  then 

To  La  Calzada's  fatal  town 

Did  they  come  back  again. 


NARRATIVE.  107 

The  Mother  would  not  be  withheld, 

But  go  she  must  to  see 
Where  her  poor  Pierre  was  left  to  hang 
Upon  the  gallows  tree. 

Oh  tale  most  marvelous  to  hear, 

Most  marvelous  to  tell  1 
Eight  weeks  had  he  been  hanging  there, 
And  yet  was  alive  and  well ! 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  you  're  return'd, 

It  is  time  I  should  now  be  released : 
Though  I  can  not  complain  that  I  'm  tired, 
And  my  neck  does  not  ache  in  the  least. 

"  The  Sun  has  not  scorch'd  me  by  day, 
The  Moon  has  not  chilled  me  by  night ; 
And  the  winds  have  but  helped  me  to  swing, 
As  if  in  a  dream  of  delight. 

"  Go  you  to  the  Alcayde, 

That  hasty  Judge  unjust, 
Tell  him  Santiago  has  saved  me, 
And  take  me  down  he  must !" 

Now,  you  must  know  the  Alcayde, 
Not  thinking  himself  a  great  sinner, 
Just  then  at  table  had  sate  down, 
About  to  begin  his  dinner. 

His  knife  was  raised  to  carve 
The  dish  before  him  then ; 
Two  roasted  fowls  were  laid  therein, 
That  very  morning  they  had  been 
A  Cock  and  his  faithful  Hen. 

In  came  the  Mother,  wild  with  joy : 

"  A  miracle !"  she  cried ; 
But  that  most  hasty  Judge  unjust 

Repell'd  her  in  his  pride. 


108  NARRATIVE. 

"  Think  not>"  quoth  he,  "  to  tales  like  this 

That  I  should  give  belief! 
Santiago  never  would  bestow 
His  miracles,  full  well  I  know, 
On  a  Frenchman  and  a  thief." 

And  pointing  to  the  Fowls,  o'er  which 

He  held  his  ready  knife, 
"  As  easily  might  I  believe 
These  birds  should  come  to  life  !" 


The  good  Saint  would  not  let  him  thus 

The  Mother's  true  tale  withstand ; 

So  up  rose  the  Fowls  in  the  dish, 
And  down  dropt  the  knife  from  his  hand. 

The  Cock  would  have  crow'd  if  he  could : 

To  cackle  the  Hen  had  a  wish ; 
And  they  both  slipt  about  in  the  gravy 
Before  they  got  out  of  the  dish. 

And  when  each  would  have  open'd  its  eyes, 
For  the  purpose  of  looking  about  them, 
They  saw  they  had  no  eyes  to  open, 
And  that  there  was  no  seeing  without  them. 

All  this  was  to  them  a  great  wonder, 
They  stagger'd  and  reel'd  on  the  table ; 
And  either  to  guess  where  they  were, 
Or  what  was  their  plight,  or  how  they  came  there, 
Alas  I  they  were  wholly  unable  : 

Because,  you  must  know,  that  that  morning, 
A  thing  which  they  thought  very  hard, 
The  Cook  had  cut  off  their  heads, 
And  thrown  them  away  in  the  yard. 

The  Hen  would  have  pranked  up  her  feathers, 

But  plucking  had  sadly  deform'd  her ; 
And  for  want  of  them  she  would  have  shiver'd  with  cold, 
If  the  roasting  she  had  had  not  warm'd  her. 


NAEKATIVE.  109 

And  the  Cock  felt  exceedingly  queer ; 

He  thought  it  a  very  odd  thing 

That  his  head  and  his  voice  were  he  did  not  know  where, 
And  his  gizzard  tuck'd  under  his  wing. 

The  gizzard  got  into  its  place, 

But  how  Santiago  knows  best : 
And  so,  by  the  help  of  the  Saint, 

Did  the  liver  and  all  the  rest. 

The  heads  saw  their  way  to  the  bodies, 

In  they  came  from  the  yard  without  check, 

And  each  took  its  own  proper  station, 

To  the  very  great  joy  of  the  neck. 

And  in  flew  the  feathers,  like  snow  in  a  shower, 

For  they  all  became  white  on  the  way  ; 
And  the  Cock  and  the  Hen  in  a  trice  were  refledged, 
And  then  who  so  happy  as  they ! 

Cluck !  cluck  !  cried  the  Hen  right  merrily  then, 

The  Cock  his  clarion  blew, 
Full  glad  was  he  to  hear  again 
His  own  cock-a-doo-del-doo ! 


PART    III. 

"  A  MIRACLE  !  a  miracle !" 
The  people  shouted,  as  they  might  well, 
When  the  news  went  through  the  town ; 
And  every  child  and  woman  and  man 
Took  up  the  cry,  and  away  they  ran 
To  see  Pierre  taken  down. 

They  made  a  famous  procession ; 
My  good  little  women  and  men, 
Such  a  sight  was  never  seen  before, 
And  I  think  will  never  again. 


110  NARRATIVE. 

Santiago's  Image,  large  as  life, 
Went  first  with  banners  and  drum  and  fife  ; 

And  next,  as  was  most  meet, 
The  twice-born  Cock  and  Hen  were  borne 

Along  the  thronging  street. 

Perched  on  a  cross-pole  hoisted  high, 
They  were  raised  in  sight  of  the  crowd ; 
And  when  the  people  set  up  a  cry, 
The  Hen  she  cluck' d  in  sympathy, 
And  the  Cock  he  crow'd  aloud. 


And  because  they  very  well  knew  for  why 

They  were  carried  in  such  solemnity, 

And  saw  the  Saint  and  his  banners  before  'em, 

They  behaved  with  the  greatest  propriety, 

And  most  correct  decorum. 


The  Knife,  which  had  cut  off  their  heads  that  morn, 
Still  red  with  their  innocent  blood,  was  borne, 

The  scullion  boy  he  earned  it  ; 
And  the  Skewers  also  made  part  of  the  show, 
With  which  they  were  truss'd  for  the  spit. 


The  Cook  in  triumph  bore  that  Spit 

As  high  as  he  was  able  ; 

And  the  Dish  was  display'd  wherein  they  were  laid 
When  they  had  been  served  at  table. 


With  eager  faith  the  crowd  prest  round ; 

There  was  a  scramble  of  women  and  men 

For  who  should  dip  a  finger-tip 

In  the  blessed  Gravy  then. 

Next  went  the  Alcayde,  beating  his  breast, 

Crying  aloud  like  a  man  distrest, 
And  amazed  at  the  loss  of  his  dinner, 

"  Santiago,  Santiago ! 
Have  mercy  on  me  a  sinner!" 


NARRATIVE.  Ill 

And  lifting  oftentimes  his  hands 

Toward  the  Cock  and  Hen, 
"  Orate  pro  nobis  /"  devoutly  he  cried, 
And  as  devoutly  the  people  replied, 

Whenever  he  said  it,  "Amen!" 

The  Father  and  Mother  were  last  in  the  train  ; 

Rejoicingly  they  came, 
And  extoll'd,  with  tears  of  gratitude, 
Santiago's  glorious  name. 

So,  with  all  honors  that  might  be, 

They  gently  unhang'd  Pierre ; 
No  hurt  or  harm  had  he  sustain' d, 

But,  to  make  the  wonder  clear, 
A  deep  biack  halter-mark  remain'd 
Just  under  his  left  ear. 


PART    IV. 

And  now,  my  little  listening  dears 
With  open  mouths  and  open  ears, 
Like  a  rhymer  whose  only  art  is 
That  of  telling  a  plain  un varnish' d  tale, 
To  let  you  know  I  must  not  fail, 
What  became  of  all  the  parties. 

Pierre  went  on  to  Compostella 

To  finish  his  pilgrimage, 

His  parents  went  back  with  him  joyfully, 

After  which  they  returned  to  their  own  country 

And  there,  I  believe,  that  all  the  three 

Lived  to  a  good  old  age. 

For  the  gallows  on  which  Pierre 

So  happily  had  swung, 
It  was  resolved  that  never  more 

On  it  should  man  be  hung. 


112  NAKKATIVE. 

To  the  Church  it  was  transplanted, 

As  ancient  books  declare  : 
And  the  people  in  commotion, 
With  an  uproar  of  devotion, 
Set  it  up  for  a  relic  there. 

What  became  of  the  halter  I  know  not, 
Because  the  old  books  show  not  ; 
But  we  may  suppose  and  hope, 
That  the  city  presented  Pierre 
With  that  interesting  rope. 

For  in  his  family,  and  this 
The  Corporation  knew, 
It  rightly  would  be  valued  more 
Than  any  cordon  Ueu. 

The  Innkeeper's  wicked  daughter 
Confess' d  what  she  had  done, 
So  they  put  her  in  a  Convent, 
And  she  was  made  a  Nun. 

The  Alcayde  had  been  so  frighten' d 

That  he  never  ate  fowls  again ; 
And  he  always  pulled  off  his  hat 
When  he  saw  a  Cock  and  Hen. 

Wherever  he  sat  at  table 
Not  an  egg  might  there  be  placed ; 
And  he  never  even  muster' d  courage  for  a  custard, 
Though  garlic  tempted  him  to  taste 
Of  an  omelet  now  and  then. 

But  always  after  such  a  transgression 
He  hastened  away  to  make  confession ; 

And  not  till  he  had  confess' d, 
And  the  Priest  had  absolved  him,  did  he  feel 

His  conscience  and  stomach  at  rest 

The  twice-born  Birds  to  the  Pilgrim's  Church 

As  by  miracle  consecrate- 1, 
Were  given ;  and  there  unto  the  Saint 
They  were  publicly  dedicated. 


NARRATIVE.  113 

At  their  dedication  the  Corporation 

A  fund  for  their  keep  supplied ; 
And  after  following  the  Saint  and  his  banners, 
This  Cock  and  Hc-n  were  so  changed  in  their  manners, 
That  the  Priests  were  edified. 


Gentle  as  any  turtle-dove, 
Saint  Cock  became  all  meekness  and  love  ; 

Most  dutiful  of  wives, 
Saint  Hen  she  never  peck'd  again, 
So  they  led  happy  lives. 

The  ways  of  ordinary  fowls 
You  must  know  they  had  clean  forsaken ; 
And  if  every  Cock  and  Hen  in  Spain 

Had  their  example  taken, 
Why  then — the  Spaniards  would  have  had 
No  e™;s  to  eat  with  bacon. 


'DO 


These  blessed  Fowls,  at  seven  years  end, 

In  the  odor  of  sanctity  died : 
They  were  carefully  pluck'd  and  then 

They  were  buried,  side  by  side. 

And  lest  the  fact  should  be  forgotten 

(Which  would  have  been  a  pity), 
'T  was  decreed,  in  honor  of  their  worth, 
That  a  Cock  and  Hen  should  be  borne  thenceforth, 
In  the  arms  of  that  ancient  City. 

Two  eggs  Saint  Hen  had  laid — no  more — 

The  chickens  were  her  delight ; 
H  A  Cock  and  Hen  they  proved, 
And  both,  like  their  parents,  were  virtuous  and  whito. 

The  last  act  of  the  Holy  IL-ii 
Was  to  rear  this  precious  brood;  and  when 
Saint  Cock  and  she  were  dead, 
This  couple,  as  the  lawful  heirs, 
Succeeded  in  their  stead. 


114  NARRATIVE. 

They  also  lived  seven  years, 
And  they  laid  eggs  but  two, 
From  which  two  milk-white  chickens 
To  Cock  and  Henhood  grew  ; 
And  always  their  posterity 
The  self-same  course  pursue. 

Not  one  of  these  eggs  ever  addled, 

(With  wonder  be  it  spoken !) 
Not  one  of  them  ever  was  lost, 
Not  one  of  them  ever  was  broken. 

Sacred  they  are  ;  neither  magpie  nor  rat, 
Snake,  weasel,  nor  marten  approaching  them 

And  woe  to  the  irreverent  wretch 
Who  should  even  dream  of  poaching  them  I 

Thus  then  is  this  great  miracle 

Continued  to  this  day ; 
And  to  their  Church  all  Pilgrims  go, 

When  they  are  on  the  way ; 
And  some  of  the  feathers  are  given  them ; 
For  which  they  always  pay. 

No  price  is  set  upon  them, 
And  this  leaves  all  persons  at  ease ; 
The  Poor  give  as  much  as  they  can, 
The  Rich  as  much  as  they  please. 

But  that  the  more  they  give  the  better, 

Is  very  well  understood ; 
Seeing  whatever  is  thus  disposed  of, 
Is  for  their  own  souls'  good  ; 

For  Santiago  will  always 
Befriend  his  true  believers ; 
And  the  money  is  for  him,  the  Priests 
Being  only  his  receivers. 

To  make  the  miracle  the  more, 
Of  these  feathers  there  is  always  store, 


NAERATIVE.  115 

And  all  are  genuine  too; 
All  of  the  original  Cock  and  lion, 
Which  the  Priests  will  swear  is  true. 

Thousands  a  thousand  times  told  have  bought  them, 
And  if  myriads  and  tens  of  myriads  sought  them, 

They  would  still  find  some  to  buy ; 
For  however  great  were  the  demand, 
So  great  would  be  the  supply. 

And  if  any  of  you,  my  small  friends, 
Should  visit  those  parts,  I  dare  say 
You  will  bring  away  some  of  the  feathers, 
And  think  of  old  Robin  Gray. 


THE   SEARCH  AFTER   HAPPINESS; 

OR,    THE    QUEST    OF    SULTAUN   SOLIMATJN. 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 

On,  for  a  glance  of  that  gay  Muse's  eye, 
That  lighten'd  on  Bandello's  laughing  tale, 
And  twinkled  with  a  luster  shrewd  and  sly, 
When  Giam  Batttista  bade  her  vision  hail ! — 
Yet  fear  not,  ladies,  the  naive  detail 
Given  by  the  natives  of  that  land  canorous ; 
Italian  license  loves  to  leap  the  pale, 
We  Britons  have  the  fear  of  shame  before  us, 
And,  if  not  wise  in  mirth,  at  least  must  be  decorous. 

In  the  far  eastern  clime,  no  great  while  since, 
Lived  Sultaun  Solimaun,  a  mighty  prince, 
Whose  eyes,  as  oft  as  they  perform' d  their  round, 
Beheld  all  others  fix'd  upon  the  ground ; 
Whose  ears  received  the  same  unvaried  phrase, 
"  Sultaun !  thy  vassal  hears,  and  he  obeys !" 
All  have  their  tastes — this  may  the  fancy  strike 
Of  such  grave  folks  as  pomp  and  grandeur  like  ; 
For  me,  I  love  the  honest  heart  and  warm 
Of  monarch  who  can  amble  round  his  farm, 
Or  when  the  toil  of  state  no  more  annoys, 
In  chimney  corner  seek  domestic  joys — 


116  NAKKATIVE. 

I  love  a  prince  will  bid  the  bottle  pass, 
Exchanging  with  his  subjects  glance  and  glass ; 
In  fitting  time,  can,  gayest  of  the  gay, 
Keep  up  the  jest,  and  niingle  in  the  lay — 
Such  Monarchs  best  our  free-born  humors  suit, 
But  Despots  must  be  stately,  stern,  and  mute. 

This  Solimaun,  Serendib  had  in  sway — 

And  where 's  Serendib  ?  may  some  critic  say — 

Good  lack,  mine  honest  friend,  consult  the  chart, 

Scare  not  my  Pegasus  before  I  start ! 

If  Rennell  has  it  not,  you'll  find,  mayhap, 

The  isle  laid  down  in  Captain  Sinbad's  map — 

Famed  mariner !  whose  merciless  narrations 

Drove  every  friend  and  kinsman  out  of  patience, 

Till,  fain  to  find  a  guest  who  thought  them  shorter, 

He  deign'd  to  tell  them  over  to  a  porter — 

The  last  edition  see,  by  Long  and  Co., 

Rees,  Hurst,  and  Orrne,  our  fathers  in  the  Row. 

Serendib  found,  deem  not  my  tale  a  fiction — 
This  Sultaun,  whether  lacking  contradiction — 
(A  sort  of  stimulant  which  hath  its  uses, 
To  raise  the  spirits  and  reform  the  juices, 
— Sovereign  specific  for  all  sorts  of  cures 
In  my  wife's  practice,  and  perhaps  in  yours), 
The  Sultaun  lacking  this  same  wholesome  bitter, 
Of  cordial  smooth  for  prince's  palate  fitter — 
Or  if  some  Mollah  had  hag-rid  his  dreams 
With  Degial,  Ginnistan,  and  such  wild  themes 
Belonging  to  the  Mollah's  subtle  craft, 
I  wot  not — but  the  Sultaun  never  laughM, 
Scarce  ate  or  drank,  and  took  a  melancholy 
That  scorn' d  all  remedy  profane  or  holy; 
In  his  long  list  of  melancholies,  mad, 
Or  mazed,  or  dumb,  hath  Burton  none  so  bad. 

Physicians  soon  arrived,  sage,  ware,  and  tried, 
As  e'er  scrawl'd  jargon  in  a  darken' d  room ; 
With  heedful  glance  the  Sultaun's  tongue  they  eyed, 
Peep'd  in  his  bath,  and  God  knows  where  beside, 
And  then  in  solemn  accent  spoke  their  doom, 


NARRATIVE.  117 

"  His  majesty  is  very  far  from  well." 

Then  each  to  work  with  his  specific  fell ; 

The  Hakim  Ibrahim  instanter  brought 

His  unguent  Mahazzim  al  Zerdukkaut, 

While  Roompot,  a  practitioner  more  wily, 

Relied  on  his  Munaskif  all  fillfily. 

More  and  yet  more  in  deep  array  appear, 

And  some  the  front  assail,  and  some  the  rear  ; 

Their  remedies  to  reinforce  and  vary, 

Came  surgeon  eke,  and  eke  apothecary  ; 

Till  the  tired  Monarch,  though  of  words  grown  chary, 

Yet  dropt,  to  recompense  their  fruitless  labor, 

Some  hint  about  a  bowstring  or  a  saber. 

There  lack'd,  I  promise  you,  no  longer  speeches, 

To  rid  the  palace  of  those  learned  leeches. 


Then  was  the  council  call'd — by  their  advice 
(They  deem'd  the  matter  ticklish  all,  and  nice, 

And  sought  to  shift  it  off  from  their  own  shoulders) 
Tartars  and  couriers  in  all  speed  were  sent, 
To  call  a  sort  of  Eastern  Parliament 

Of  feudatory  chieftains  and  freeholders — 
Such  have  the  Persians  at  this  very  day, 
My  gallant  Malcolm  calls  them  couroultai; — 
I  'm  not  prepared  to  show  in  this  slight  song 
That  to  Secendib  the  same  forms  belong — 
E'en  let  the  learn' d  go  search,  and  tell  me  if  I'm  wrong. 


The  Omrahs,  each  with  hand  on  scimitar, 

Gave,  like  Sempronius,  still  their  voice  for  war — 

"  The  saber  of  the  Sultaun  in  its  sheath 

Too  long  has  slept,  nor  own'd  the  work  of  death ; 

Let  the  Tambourgi  bid  his  signal  rattle, 

Bang  the  loud  gong,  and  raise  the  shout  of  battle  ! 

This  dreary  cloud  that  dims  our  sovereign's  day, 

Shall  from  his  kindled  bosom  flit  away, 

When  the  bold  Lootie  wheels  his  courser  round, 

And  the  arm'd  elephant  shall  shake  the  ground. 

Each  noble  pants  to  own  the  glorious  summons — 

And  for  the  charges — Lo !  your  faithful  Commons !' 


118  NARRATIVE. 

The  Riots  who  attended  in  their  places 

(Serendib  language  calls  a  farmer  Riot) 
Look'd  ruefully  in  one  another's  .faces, 

From  this  oration  auguring  much  disquiet, 
Double  assessment,  forage,  and  free  quarters ; 
And  fearing  these  as  China-men  the  Tartars, 
Or  as  the  whisker'd  vermin  fear  the  mousers, 
Each  fumbled  in  the  pockets  of  his  trowsers. 

And  next  came  forth  the  reverend  Convocation, 

Bald  heads,  white  beards,  and  many  a  turban  green, 
Imaum  and  Mollah  there  of  every  station, 

Santon,  Fakir,  and  Calendar  were  seen. 
Their  votes  were  various — some  advised  a  Mosque 

With  fitting  revenues  should  be  erected, 
With  seemly  gardens  and  with  gay  Kiosque, 

To  create  a  band  of  priests  selected ; 
Others  opined  that  through  the  realms  a  dole 

Be  made  to  holy  men,  whose  prayers  might  profit 
The  Sultaun's  weal  in  body  and  in  soul 

But  their  long-headed  chief,  the  Sheik  Ul-Sofit, 
More  closely  touch'd  the  point; — "  Thy  studious  mood," 
Quoth  he,  "  0  Prince !  hath  thicken'd  all  thy  blood, 
And  dull'd  thy  brain  with  labor  beyond  measure ; 
Wherefore  relax  a  space  and  take  thy  pleasure, 
And  toy  with  beauty,  or  tell  o'er  thy  treasure ; 
From  all  the  cares  of  state,  my  Liege,  enlarge  thee, 
And  leave  the  burden  to  thy  faithful  clergy." 

These  counsels  sage  availed  not  a  whit, 

And  so  the  patient  (as  is  not  uncommon 
Where  grave  physicians  lose  their  time  and  wit) 

Resolved  to  take  advice  of  an  old  woman ; 
His  mother  she,  a  dame  who  once  was  beauteous, 
And  still  was  called  so  by  each  subject  duteous. 
Now  whether  Fatima  was  witch  in  earnest, 

Or  only  made  believe,  I  can  not  say — 
But  she  profess'd  to  cure  disease  the  sternest, 

By  dint  of  magic  amulet  or  lay ; 
And,  when  all  other  skill  in  vain  was  shown, 
She  deem'd  it  fitting  time  to  use  her  own. 


NARRATIVE.  119 

"  Sympathia  magica  hath  wonders  done" 

(Thus  did  old  Fatima  bespeak  her  son), 

"  It  works  upon  the  fibers  and  the  pores, 

And  thus,  insensibly,  our  health  restores, 

And  it  must  help  us  here. — Thou  must  endure 

The  ill,  my  son,  or  travel  for  the  cure. 

Search  land  and  sea,  and  get,  where'er  you  can, 

The  inmost  vesture  of  a  happy  man : 

I  mean  his  SHIRT,  my  son ;  which,  taken  warm 

And  fresh  from  off  his  back,  shall  chase  your  harm, 

Bid  every  current  of  your  veins  rejoice, 

And  your  dull  heart  leap  light  as  shepherd-boy's." 

Such  was  the  counsel  from  his  mother  came ; — 

I  know  not  if  she  had  some  under-game, 

As  doctors  have,  who  bid  their  patients  roam 

And  live  abroad,  when  sure  to  die  at  home  ; 

Or  if  she  thought,  that,  somehow  or  another, 

Queen-Regent  sounded  better  than  Queen-Mother ; 

But,  says  the  Chronicle  (who  will  go  look  it  ?) 

That  such  was  her  advice — the  Sultaun  took  it. 

All  are  on  board — the  Sultaun  and  his  train, 
In  gilded  galley  prompt  to  plow  the  main. 

The  old  Rais  was  the  first  who  question'd,  "Whither? 
They  paused — "  Arabia,"  thought  the  pensive  Prince, 
"  Was  call'd  The  Happy  many  ages  since — 

For  Mokha,  Rais." — And  they  came  safely  thither. 
But  not  in  Araby,  with  all  her  balm, 
Not  where  Judea  weeps  beneath  her  palm, 
Not  in  rich  Egypt,  not  in  Nubian  waste, 
Could  there  the  step  of  Happiness  be  traced. 
One  Copt  alone  profess'd  to  have  seen  her  smile 
When  Bruce  his  goblet  fill'd  at  infant  Nile : 
She  bless'd  the  dauntless  traveler  as  he  quafTd, 
But  vanish'd  from  him  with  the  ended  draught. 

"  Enough  of  turbans,"  said  the  weary  King, 
"  These  dolimans  of  ours  are  not  the  thing ; 
Try  we  the  Giaours,  these  men  of  coat  and  cap,  I 
Incline  to  think  some  of  them  must  be  happy ; 
At  least  they  have  as  fair  a  cause  as  any  can, 
They  drink  good  wine  and  keep  no  Ramazan. 


120  NARRATIVE. 

Then  northward,  ho  1" — The  vessel  cuts  the  sea, 

And  fair  Italia  lies  upon  her  lee. — 

Bat  fair  Italia,  she  who  once  unfurl'd 

Her  eagle-banners  o'er  a  conquer'd  world, 

Long  from  her  throne  of  domination  tumbled, 

Lay,  by  her  quondam  vassals,  sorely  humbled, 

The  Pope  himself  look'd  pensive,  pale,  and  lean, 

And  was  not  half  the  man  he  once  had  been. 

"  While  these  the  priest  and  those  the  noble  fleeces, 

Our  poor  old  boot,"  they  said,  "  is  torn  to  pieces. 

Its  tops  the  vengeful  claws  of  Austria  feel, 

And  the.  Great  Devil  is  rending  toe  and  heel. 

If  happiness  you  seek,  to  tell  you  truly, 

We  think  she  dwells  with  one  Giovanni  Bulli ; 

A  tramontane,  a  heretic — the  buck, 

PofTaredio !   still  has  all  the  luck  ; 

By  land  or  ocean  never  strikes  his  flag— 

And  then — a  perfect  walking  money-bag." 

Off  set  our  Prince  to  seek  John  Bull's  abode, 

But  first  took  France — it  lay  upon  the  road. 

Monsieur  Baboon,  after  much  late  commotion, 

Was  agitated  like  a  settling  ocean, 

Quite  out  of  sorts,  and  could  not  tell  what  ail'd  him, 

Only  the  glory  of  his  house  had  fail'd  him  ; 

Besides,  some  tumors  on  his  noddle  biding, 

Gave^indication  of  a  recent  hiding. 

Our  Prince,  though  Sultauns  of  such  things  are  heedless, 

Thought  it  a  thing  indelicate  and  needless 

To  ask,  if  at  that  moment  he  was  happy. 
And  Monsieur,  seeing  that  he  was  comme  il  faut,  a 
Loud  voice  muster'd  up,  for  "  Vive  le  Roi  /" 

Then  whisper'd,  "  'Ave  you  any  news  of  Napp}7"  ?" 
The  Sultaun  answer'd  him  with  A  cross  question — 

"  Pray,  can  you  tell  me  aught  of  one  John  Bull, 

That  dwells  somewhere  beyond  your  herring-pool  ?" 
The  query  seem'd  of  difficult  digestion, 
The  party  shrugg'd,  and  grinn'd,  and  took  his  snuff, 
And  found  his  whole  good-breeding  scarce  enough. 

Twitching  his  visage  into  as  many  puckers 
As  damsels  wont  to  put  into  their  tuckers 


NARRATIVE.  12] 

(Ere  liberal  Fashion  damn'd  both  lace  and  lawn, 
And  bade  the  vail  of  modesty  be  drawn), 
Replied  the  Frenchman,  after  a  brief  pause, 
"  Jean  Bool ! — I  vas  not  know  him — yes,  I  vas-  - 
I  vas  remember  dat,  von  year  or  two, 
I  saw  him  at  von  place  call'd  Vaterloo — 
Ma  foi !  il  s'est  tres  joliment  battu, 
Dat  is  for  Englishman — m'entendez-vous  ? 
But  den  he  had  wit  him  one  damn  son-gun, 
Rogue  I  no  like — dey  call  him  Vellington." 
Monsieur's  politeness  could  not  hide  his  fret, 
So  Solimaun  took  leave,  and  cross'd  the  strait 

John  Bull  was  in  his  very  worst  of  moods, 
Raving  of  sterile  farms  and  unsold  goods ; 
His  sugar-loaves  and  bales  about  he  threw, 
And  on  his  counter  beat  the  devil's  tattoo. 
His  wars  were  ended,  and  the  victory  won, 
But  then,  't  was  reckoning-day  with  honest  John ; 
And  authors  vouch,  'twas  still  this  Worthy's  way, 
"  Never  to  grumble  till  he  came  to  pay ; 
And  then  he  always  thinks,  his  temper's  such, 
The  work  too  little,  and  the  pay  too  much." 

Yet  grumbler  as  he  is,  so  kind  and  hearty, 
That  when  his  mortal  foe  was  on  the  floor, 
And  past  the  power  to  harm  his  quiet  more, 

Poor  John  had  well-nigh  wept  for  Bonaparte  I 
Such  was  the  wight  whom  Solimaun  salam'd — 
"  And  who  are  you,"  John  answer'd,  "  and  be  d — d  ?" 

"  A  stranger  come  to  see  the  happiest  man — 
So,  signior,  all  avouch — in  Frangistan.'  — 
"Happy?  my  tenants  breaking  on  my  haw". ; 
linstock' d  my  pastures,  and  untill'd  my  land  ; 
Sugar  and  rum  a  drug,  and  mice  and  moths 
The  sole  consumers  of  my  good  broadcloths — 
Happy  ? — why,  cursed  war  and  racking  tax 
Have  left  us  scarcely  raiment  to  our  backs." — 
"  In  that  case,  signior,  I  may  take  my  leave  ; 
I  came  to  ask  a  favor — but  I  grieve." — 
"  Favor  ?"  said  John,  and  eyed  the  Sultaun  hard, 
"  It's  my  belief  you  came  to  break  the  yard  ! — 
6 


122  NARRATIVE. 

But,  stay,  you  look  like  some  poor  foreign  sinner — 
Take  that  to  buy  yourself  a  shirt  and  dinner." — 
With  that  he  chuck'  d  a  guinea  at  his  head ; 
But,  with  due  dignity,  the  Sultaun  said, 
"  Permit  me,  sir,  your  bounty  to  decline  ; 
A  shirt  indeed  I  seek,  but  none  of  thine. 
Signior,  I  kiss  your  hands,  so  fare  you  well," — 
" Kiss  and  be  d — d,"  quoth  John,  "and  go  to  hell!" 

Next  door  to  John  there  dwelt  his  sister  Peg, 
Once  a  wild  lass  as  ever  shook  a  leg 
When  the  blithe  bagpipe  blew — but,  soberer  now, 
She  doucely  span  her  flax  and  milk'd  her  cow. 
And  whereas  erst  she  was  a  needy  slattern, 
Nor  now  of  wealth  or  cleanliness  a  pattern, 
Yet  once  a  month  her  house  was  partly  swept, 
And  once  a  week  a  plenteous  board  she  kept. 
And,  whereas,  eke,  the  vixen  used  her  claws 

And  teeth  of  yore,  on  slender  provocation, 
She  now  was  grown  amenable  to  laws, 

A  quiet  soul  as  any  in  the  nation ; 
The  sole  remembrance  of  her  warlike  joys 
Was  in  old  songs  she  sang  to  please  her  boys. 
John  Bull,  whom,  in  their  years  of  early  strife, 
She  wont  to  lead  a  cat-and-doggish  life, 
Now  found  the  woman,  as  he  said,  a  neighbor, 
Who  look-'d  to  the  main  chance,  declined  no  labor, 
Loved  a  long  grace,  and  spoke  a  northern  jargon, 
And  was  d — d  close  in  making  of  a  bargain. 

The  Sultaun  enter'd,  and  he  made  his  leg, 
And  with  decorum  courtesy'd  sister  Peg ; 
x  (She  loved  a  book,  and  knew  a  thing  or  two, 
And  guess'd  at  once  with  whom  she  had  to  do). 
She  bade  him  "  Sit  into  the  fire,"  and  took 
Her  dram,  her  cake,  her  kebbuck  from  the  nook ; 
Ask'd  him  "About  the  news  from  Eastern  parts ; 
And  of  her  absent  bairns,  puir  Highland  hearts ! 
If  peace  brought  down  the  price  of  tea  and  pepper, 
And  if  the  nitmugs  were  grown  ony  cheaper ; — 
Were  there  nae  speerings  of  our  Mungo  Park — 
Ye  '11  be  the  gentleman  that  wants  the  sark  ? 


NAKRATIVE.  123 

If  ye  wad  buy  a  web  o'  auld  wife's  spinning, 

I  '11  warrant  ye  it's  a  weel-wearing  linen." 

Then  up  got  Peg,  and  round  the  house  'gan  scuttle 

In  search  of  goods  her  customer  to  nail, 
Until  the  Sultaun  strain'd  his  princely  throttle 

And  hallo'd — "  Ma'am,  that  is  not  what  I  ail. 
Pray,  are  you  happy,  ma'am,  in  this  snug  glen  ?" — 
"  Happy  ?"  said  Peg;  "  What  for  d'ye  want  to  ken? 
Besides,  just  think  upon  this  by-gane  year, 

Grain  wadna  pay  the  yoking  of  the  pleugh." — 

II  What  say  you  to  the  present?" — "Meal's  sae  dear, 

To  make  their  brose  my  bairns  have  scarce  aneugh." — 
"  The  devil  take  the  shirt,"  said  Solimaun, 
"  I  think  my  quest  will  end  as  it  began. — 
Farewell,  ma'am ;  nay,  no  ceremony,  I  beg" — 
"  Ye '11  no  be- for  the  linen  then?"  said  Peg. 

Now,  for  the  land  of  verdant  Erin, 

The  Sultaun's  royal  bark  is  steering, 

The  Emerald  Isle,  where  honest  Paddy  dwells, 

The  cousin  of  John  Bull,  as  story  tells. 

For  a  long  space  had  John,  with  words  of  thunder 

Hard  looks,  and  harder  knocks,  kept  Paddy  under, 

Till  the  poor  lad,  like  boy  that's  flogg'd  unduly, 

Had  gotten  somewhat  restive  and  unruly. 

Hard  was  his  lot  and  lodging,  you  '11  allow, 

A  wigwam  that  would  hardly  serve  a  sow  ; 

His  landlord,  and  of  middle  men  two  brace, 

Had  screw'd  his  rent  up  to  the  starving-place  ; 

His  garment  was  a  top-coat,  and  an  old  one, 

His  meal  was  a  potato,  and  a  cold  one ; 

But  still  for  fun  or  frolic,  and  all  that, 

In  the  round  world  was  not  the  match  of  Pat. 

The  Sultaun  saw  him  on  a  holiday, 

Which  is  with  Paddy  still  a  jolly  day; 

When  mass  is  ended,  and  his  load  of  sins 

Confess'd,  and  Mother  Church  hath  from  her  binns 

Dealt  forth  a  bonus  of  imputed  merit, 

Then  is  Pat's  time  for  fancy,  whim,  and  spirit  I 

To  jest,  to  sing,  to  caper  fair  and  free, 

And  dance  as  light  as  leaf  upon  the  tree. 


124  NARRATIVE. 

"  By  Mahomet,"  said  Sultaun  Solimaun, 
"  That  ragged  fellow  is  our  very  man ! 
Eush  in  and  seize  him — do  not  do  him  hurt, 
But,  will  he  nill  he,  let  me  have  his  shirt." 

Shilela  their  plan  was  well-nigh  after  baulking 

(Much  less  provocation  will  set  it  a-walking), 

But  the  odds  that  foil'd  Hercules  foil'd  Paddy  Whack  ; 

They  seized,  and  they  floor'd,  and  they  stripp'd  him — Alack  I 

Up-bubboo  !  Paddy  had  not — a  shirt  to  his  back ! ! ! 

And  the  King,  disappointed,  with  sorrow  and  shame, 

Went  back  to  Screndib  as  sad  as  he  came. 


THE  DONKEY  AND  HIS  PANNIERS. 

THOMAS    MOORE 

A  DONKEY  whose  talent  for  burden  was  wondrous, 
So  much  that  you  'd  swear  he  rejoiced  in  a  load, 

One  day  had  to  jog  under  panniers  so  pond'rous, 

That — down  the  poor  donkey  fell,  smack  on  the  road. 

His  owners  and  drivers  stood  round  in  amaze — 
What  1  Neddy,  the  patient,  the  prosperous  Neddy 

So  easy  to  drive  through  the  dirtiest  ways, 
For  every  description  of  job-work  so  ready  ! 

One  driver  (whom  Ned  might  have  "  hail'd"  as  a  "  brother") 
Had  just  been  proclaiming  his  donkey's  renown, 

For  vigor,  for  spirit,  for  one  thing  or  other — 

When,  lo !  'mid  his  praises,  the  donkey  came  down. 

But,  how  to  upraise  him? — one  shouts,  t'other  whistles, 

While  Jenky,  the  conjurer,  wisest  of  all, 
Declared  that  an  "  over-production"  of  thistles — 

(Here  Ned  gave  a  stare) — was  the  cause  of  his  fall. 

Another  wise  Solomon  cries,  as  he  passes — 

"  There,  let  him  alone,  and  the  fit  will  soon  cease ; 

The  beast  has  been  fighting  with  other  jack-asses, 
And  tliis  is  his  mode  of  c  transition  to  peuce!  " 


NARRATIVE.  125 

Some  look'd  at  his  hoofs,  and,  with  learned  grimaces, 
Pronounced  that  too  long  without  shoes  he  had  gone — 

"  Let  the  blacksmith  provide  him  a  sound  metal  basis 
(The  wiseacres  said),  and  he 's  sure  to  jog  on." 

But  others  who  gabbled  a  jargon  half  Gaelic, 

Exclaim'd,  "  Hoot  awa,  mon,  you  're  a'  gane  astray" — 

And  declared  that  "  whoe'er  might  prefer  the  metallic, 
They  'd  shoe  their  own  donkeys  with  papier  mache" 

Meanwhile  the  poor  Neddy,  in  torture  and  fear, 

Lay  under  his  panniers,  scarce  able  to  groan, 
And,  what  was  still  dolefuler — lending  an  ear 

To  advisers  whose  ears  were  a  match  for  his  own! 

At  length,  a  plain  rustic,  whose  wit  went  so  far 
As  to  see  others'  folly,  roar'd  out  as  he  pass'd — 

"  Quick — off  with  the  panniers,  all  dolts  as  ye  are, 
Or  your  prosperous  Neddy  will  soon  kick  his  last." 


MISADVENTURES  AT  MARGATE. 

A   LEGEND   OF   JARVIS'S  JETTY. 

R.    HARRIS   BARHAM. 

MR.  SIMPKINSON  (loquitur). 

I  WAS  in  Margate  last  July,  I  walk'd  upon  the  pier, 
I  saw  a  little  vulgar  Boy — I  said  "  What  make  you  here  ? — 
The  gloom  upon  your  youthful  cheek  speaks  any  thing  but  joy;" 
Again  I  said,  "  What  make  you  here,  you  little  vulgar  Boy  ?" 

He  frown'd,  that  little  vulgar  Boy — he  deem'd  I  meant  to  scoff — 
And  when  the  little  heart  is  big,  a  little  "  sets  it  off;" 
He  put  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  his  little  bosom  rose, — 
He  had  no  little  handkerchief  to  wipe  his  little  nose  1 

"Hark!  don't  you  hear,  my  little  man? — it's  striking  nine,"  I 

said, 

"  An  hour  when  all  good  little  boys  and  girls  should  be  in  bed. 
Run  home  and  get  your  supper,  else  your  Ma'  will  scold — Oh  I 

fie!— 
It's  very  wrong  indeed  for  little  boys  to  stand  and  cry !" 


126  NARRATIVE. 

The  tear-drop  in  his  little  eye  again  began  to  spring, 
His  bosom  throbb'd  with  agony — he  cried  like  any  thing ! 
I  stoop'd,  and  thus  amidst  his  sobs  I  heard  him  murmur — "  Ah ! 
I  haven't  got  no  supper !  and  I  haven't  got  no  Ma' !  ! — 

1 '  My  father,  he  is  on  the  seas, — my  mother 's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  I  am  here,  on  this  here  pier,  to  roam  the  world  alone  ; 
I  have  not  had,  this  live-long  day,  one  drop  to  cheer  my  heart, 
Nor  '  brown1  to  buy  a  bit  of  bread  with, — let  alone  a  tart. 

"  If  there 's  a  soul  will  give  me  food,  or  find  me  in  employ, 
By  day  or  night,  then  blow  me  tight !"  (he  was  a  vulgar  Boy;) 
"  And  now  IVm  here,  from  this  here  pier  it  is  my  fixed  intent 
To  jump,  as  Mr.  Levi  did  from  off  the  Monu-ment !" 

"  Cheer  up  !  cheer  up  I  my  little  man — cheer  up  !"  I  kindly  said, 

You  are  a  naughty  boy  to  take  such  things  into  your  head : 

If  you  should  jump  from  off  the  pier,  you  'd  surely  break  your 

legs, 
Perhaps  your  neck — then  Bogey  'd  have  you,  sure  as  eggs  are 

eggs! 

"  Come  home  with  me,  my  little  man,  come  home  with  me  and 

sup; 

My  landlady  is  Mrs.  Jones — we  must  not  keep  her  up — 
There 's  roast  potatoes  on  the  fire, — enough  for  me  and  you — 
Come  home, — you  little  vulgar  Boy — I  lodge  at  Number  2.'' 

I  took  him  home  to  Number  2,  the  house  beside  "  The  Foy," 
I  bade  him  wipe  his  dirty  shoes, — that  little  vulgar  Boy, — 
And  then  I  said  to  Mistress  Jones,  the  kindest  of  her  sex, 
"  Pray  be  so  good  as  go  and  fetch  a  pint  of  double  X !" 

But  Mrs.  Jones  was  rather  cross,  she  made  a  little  noise, 
She  said  she  "  did  not  like  to  wait  on  little  vulgar  Boys." 
She  with  her  apron  wiped  the  plates,  and,  as  she  rubb'd  the  delfj 
Said  I  might  "  go  to  Jericho,  and  fetch  my  beer  myself!" 

I  did  not  go  to  Jericho — I  went  to  Mr.  Cobb — 
I  changed  a  shilling — (which  in  town  the  people  call  "  a  Bob") — 
It  was  not  so  much  for  myself  as  for  that  vulgar  child — 
And  I  said,  "  A  pint  of  double  X,  and  please  to  draw  it  mild !" 


NARRATIVE.  127 

When  I  came  back  I  gazed  about — I  gazed  on  stool  and  chair — 
I  could  not  see  my  little  friend — because  he  was  not  there  ! 
I  peep'd  beneath  the  table-cloth — beneath  the  sofa  too — 
I  said  "  You  little  vulgar  Boy  I  why  what 's  become  of  you  ?" 

I  could  not  see  my  table-spoons — I  look'd,  but  could  not  see 
The  little  fiddle-pattern'd  ones  I  use  when  I  'm  at  tea ; 
— I  could  not  see  my  sugar-tongs — my  silver  watch — oh,  dear ! 
I  know  't  was  on  the  mantle-piece  when  I  went  out  for  beer. 

I  could  not  see  my  Mackintosh ! — it  was  not  to  be  seen  ! 

Nor  yet  my  best  white  beaver  hat,  broad-brimm'd  and  lined  with 

green  ; 

My  carpet-bag — my  cruet-stand,  that  holds  my  sauce  and  soy, — 
My  roast  potatoes  ! — all  are  gone  ! — and  so 's  that  vulgar  Boy ! 

I  rang  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Jones,  for  she  was  down  below, 
" — Oh,  Mrs.  Jones!  what  do  you  think  ? — ain't  this  a  pretty  go  ? 
— That  horrid  little  vulgar  Boy  whom  I  brought  here  to-night, 
— He's  stolen  my  things  and  run  away!  !" — Says  she,  "And 

sarve  you  right !  !" 

******* 
Next  morning  I  was  up  betimes — I  sent  the  Crier  round, 
All  with  his  bell  and  gold-laced  hat,  to  say  I  'd  give  a  pound 
To  find  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  who  'd  gone  and  used  me  so; 
But  when  the  Crier  cried  "  0  Yes  !"  the  people  cried,  "  0  No !" 

I  went  to  "  Jarvis'  Landing-place,"  the  glory  of  the  town, 
There  was  a  common  sailor-man  a-walking  up  and  down ; 
I  told  my  tale — he  seem'd  to  think  I  'd  not  been  treated  well, 
And  called  me  "  Poor  old  Buffer  !"  what  that  means  I  cannot  tell. 

That  sailor-man,  he  said  he  'd  seen  that  morning  on  the  shore, 
A  son  of — something — 't  was  a  name  I  'd  never  heard  before, 
A  little  "  gallows-looking  chap" — dear  me ;  what  could  he  mean  ? 
With  a  "  carpet-swab"  and  "  muckingtogs,"  and  a  hat  turned  up 
with  green. 

He  spoke  about  his  "  precious  eyes,"  and  said  he  'd  seen  him 

"  sheer," 

— It 's  very  odd  that  sailor-men  should  talk  so  very  queer — 
And  then  he  hitch'd  his  trowsers  up,  as  is,  I  'm  told,  their  use, 
— It  'a  very  odd  that  sailor-men  should  wear  those  things  so  loose. 


128  NARRATIVE. 

I  did  not  understand  him  well,  but  think  he  meant  to  say 
He  'd  seen  that  little  vulgar  Boy,  that  morning  swim  away 
In  Captain  Largo's  Royal  George  about  an  hour  before, 
And  they  were  now,  as  he  supposed,  "  somew/ieres"  about  the 
Nore. 

A  landsman  said,  "  I  twig  the  chap — he 's  been  upon  the  Mill — 
And  'cause  he  gammons  so  the  flats,  ve  calls  him  Veeping  Bill !" 
He  said  "  he  'd  done  me  wery  brown,"  and  "  nicely  stow'd  the 

swag." 
— That 's  French,  I  fancy,  for  a  hat — or  else  a  carpet-bag. 

I  went  and  told  the  constable  my  property  to  track ; 
He  asked  me  if  "  I  did  not  wish  that  I  might  get  it  back  ?" 
I  answered,  "  To  be  sure  I  do ! — it 's  what  I  come  about." 
He  smiled  and  said,  "  Sir,  does  your  mother  know  that  you  are 
out?" 

Not  knowing  what  to  do,  I  thought  I  'd  hasten  back  to  town, 
And  beg  our  own  Lord  Mayor  to  catch  the  Boy  who  'd  "  done 

me  brown." 

His  Lordship  very  kindly  said  he  'd  try  and  find  him  out, 
But  he  "rather   thought  that  there  were  several  vulgar  boys 

about." 

He  sent  for  Mr.  Whithair  then,  and  I  described  "  the  swag," 
My  Mackintosh,  my  sugar-tongs,  my  spoons,  and  carpet-bag ; 
He  promised  that  the  New  Police  should  all  their  powers  employ ; 
But  never  to  this  hour  have  I  beheld  that  vulgar  Boy ! 

MORAL. 

Remember,  then,  what  when  a  boy  I  Ve  heard  my  Grandma'  tell, 
"  BE  WARN'D  IN  TIME  BY  OTHERS'  HARM,  AND  YOU  SHALL  DO  FULL 

WELL!" 

Don't  link  yourself  with  vulgar  folks,  who  've  got  no  fix'd  abode, 
Tell  lies,  use  naughty  words,  and  say  they  "  wish  they  may  be 

blow'd !" 

Don't  take  too  much  of  double  X  I — and  don't  at  night  go  out 
To  fetch  your  beer  yourself,  but  make  the  pot-boy  bring  your 

stout! 

And  when  you  go  to  Margate  next,  just  stop  and  ring  the  bell, 
Give  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Jones,  and  say  I  'm  pretty  well ! 


NARRATIVE.  129 


THE    GHOST. 

R.  HARRIS   BARHAM. 

THERE  stands  a  City, — neither  large  nor  small, 

Its  air  and  situation  sweet  and  pretty ; 
It  matters  very  little — if  at  all — 

Whether  its  denizens  are  dull  or  witty, 
Whether  the  ladies  there  are  short  or  tall, 

Brunettes  or  blondes,  only,  there  stands  a  city ! — 
Perhaps  'tis  also  requisite  to  minute 
That  there's  a  Castle,  and  a  Cobbler  in  it. 

A  fair  Cathedral,  too,  the  story  goes, 

And  kings  and  heroes  lie  entombed  within  her; 

There  pious  Saints,  in  marble  pomp  repose, 

Whose  shrines  are  worn  by  knees  of  many  a  Sinner ; 

There,  too,  full  many  an  Aldermanic  nose 
Roll'd  its  loud  diapason  after  dinner ; 

And  there  stood  high  the  holy  sconce  of  Becket, 

— Till  four  assassins  came  from  France  to  crack  it. 


The  Castle  was  a  huge  and  antique  mound, 
Proof  against  all  th'  artillery  of  the  quiver, 

Ere  those  abominable  guns  were  found, 

To  send  cold  lead  through  gallant  warrior's  liver. 

It  stands  upon  a  gently  rising  ground, 
Sloping  down  gradually  to  the  river, 

Resembling  (to  compare  great  tilings  with  smaller) 

A  well-scooped,  moldy  Stilton  cheese— but  taller. 

The  Keep,  I  find,  's  been  sadly  alter'd  lately, 

And  'stead  of  mail-clad  knights,  of  honor  jealous, 

In  martial  panoply  so  grand  and  stately, 

Its  walls  are  filled  with  money-making  fellows, 

And  stufFd,  unless  I  'm  misinformed  greatly, 

With  leaden  pipes,  and  coke,  and  coal,  and  bellows 

In  short,  so  great  a  change  has  come  to  pass, 

'Tis  now  a  manufactory  of  Gas. 
6* 


130  NARRATIVE. 

But  to  my  tale. — Before  this  profanation, 

And  ere  its  ancient  glories  were  cut  short  all, 

A  poor  hard- working  Cobbler  took  his  station 
In  a  small  house,  just  opposite  the  portal ; 

His  birth,  his  parentage,  and  education, 

I  know  but  little  of — a  strange,  odd  mortal  ; 

His  aspect,  air,  and  gait,  were  all  ridiculous ; 

His  name  was  Mason — he  'd  been  christened  Nicholas. 

Nick  had  a  wife  possessed  of  many  a  charm, 

And  of  the  Lady  Huntingdon  persuasion ; 
But,  spite  of  all  her  piety,  her  arm 

She  'd  sometimes  exercise  when  in  a  passion  ; 
And,  being  of  a  temper  somewhat  warm, 

Would  now  and  then  seize,  upon  small  occasion, 
A  stick,  or  stool,  or  any  thing  that  round  did  lie, 
And  baste  her  lord  and  master  most  confoundedly. 

No  matter ; — 'tis  a  thing  that's  not  uncommon, 

'Tis  what  we  all  have  heard,  and  most  have  read  of, — 

I  mean,  a  bruising,  pugilistic  woman, 
Such  as  I  own  I  entertain  a  dread  of, 

— And  so  did  Nick, — whom  sometimes  there  would  come  on 
A  sort  of  fear  his  Spouse  might  knock  his  head  off, 

Demolish  half  his  teeth,  or  drive  a  rib  in, 

She  shone  so  much  in  "  facers"  and  in  "  fibbing." 

"  There  's  time  and  place  for  all  things,"  said  a  sage 
(King  Solomon,  I  think),  and  this  I  can  say, 

Within  a  well-roped  ring,  or  on  a  stage, 
Boxing  may  be  a  very  pretty  Fancy, 

When  Messrs.  Burke  or  Bendigo  engage ; 
— 'Tis  not  so  well  in  Susan  or  in  Nancy : — 

To  get  well  mill'd  by  any  one's  an  evil, 

But  by  a  lady — 'tis  the  very  Devil. 

And  so  thought  Nicholas,  whose  only  trouble 

(At  least  his  worst)  was  this,  his  rib's  propensity ; 

For  sometimes  from  the  ale-house  he  would  hobble, 
His  senses  lost  in  a  sublime  immensity 

Of  cogitation — then  he  could  n't  cobble — 

And  then  his  wife  would  often  try  the  density 

Of  his  poor  skull,  and  strike  with  all  her  might, 

As  fast  as  kitchen  wenches  strike  a  light. 


NARRATIVE.  131 

Mason,  meek  soul,  who  ever  hated  strife, 

Of  this  same  striking  had  a  morbid  dread, 
He  hated  it  like  poison — or  his  wife — 

A  vast  antipathy ! — but  so  he  said — 
And  very  often,  for  a  quiet  life, 

On  these  occasions  he  'd  sneak  up  to  bed, 
Grope  darkling  in,  and  soon  as  at  the  door 
He  heard  his  lady — he  'd  pretend  to  snore. 

One  night,  then,  ever  partial  to  society, 

Nick,  with  a  friend  (another  jovial  fellow), 
Went  to  a  Club — I  should  have  said  Society — 

At  the  "  City  Arms,"  once  call'd  the  "  Porto  Bello  ;" 
A  Spouting  party,  which,  though  some  decry  it,  I 

Consider  no  bad  lounge  when  one  is  mellow ; 
There  they  discuss  the  tax  on  salt,  and  leather, 
And  change  of  ministers  and  change  of  weather. 

In  short,  it  was  a  kind  of  British  Forum, 

Like  John  G-ale  Jones',  erst  in  Piccadilly, 
Only  they  managed  things  with  more  decorum, 

And  the  Orations  were  not  quite  so  silly  ; 
Far  different  questions,  too,  would  come  before  'em 

Not  always  politics,  which,  will  ye  nill  ye, 
Their  London  prototypes  were  always  willing, 
To  give  one  quantum  suff.  of — for  a  shilling. 

It  more  resembled  one  of  later  date, 

And  tenfold  talent,  as  I  'm  told,  in  Bow-street, 

Where  kindlier  nurtured  souls  do  congregate, 

And,  though  there  are  who  deem  that  same  a  low  street, 

Yet,  I  'm  assured,  for  frolicsome  debate 
And  genuine  humor  it 's  surpassed  by  no  street, 

When  the  "  Chief  Baron"  enters,  and  assumes 

To  "  rule"  o'er  mimic  "  Thesigers"  and  "  Broughams." 

Here  they  would  oft  forget  their  Rulers'  faults, 
And  waste  in  ancient  lore  the  midnight  taper, 

Inquire  if  Orpheus  first  produced  the  Waltz, 
How  Gas-lights  differ  from  the  Delphic  Vapor. 

Whether  Hippocrates  gave  Glauber's  Salts, 

And  what  the  Romans  wrote  on  ere  they'd  paper  ,— 

This  night  the  subject  of  their  disquisitions 

Was  Ghosts,  Hobgoblins,  Sprites,  and  Apparitions. 


132  NARRATIVE. 

One  learned  gentleman,  "  a  sage  grave  man," 

Talk'd  of  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet,  "  sheath'd  in  steel  :"— 

His  well-read  friend,  who  next  to  speak  began, 
Said,  "  That  was  Poetry,  and  nothing  real ;" 

A  third,  of  more  extensive  learning,  ran 

To  Sir  George  Villiers'  Ghost,  and  Mrs.  Veal ; 

Of  sheeted  Specters  spoke  with  shorten'd  breath, 

And  thrice  he  quoted  "  Drelincourt  on  Death." 

Nick,  smoked,  and  smoked,  and  trembled  as  he  heard 
The  point  discuss' d,  and  all  they  said  upon  it, 

How  frequently  some  murder'd  man  appear'd, 
To  tell  his  wife  and  children  who  had  done  it; 

Or  how  a  Miser's  Ghost,  with  grisly  beard, 
And  pale  lean  visage,  in  an  old  Scotch  bonnet, 

Wander' d  about  to  watch  his  buried  money  ! 

When  all  at  once  Nick  heard  the  clock  strike  One — he 

Sprang  from  his  seat,  not  doubting  but  a  lecture 
Impended  from  his  fond  and  faithful  She ; 

Nor  could  he  well  to  pardon  Mm  expect  her, 
For  he  had  promised  to  "be  home  to  tea;" 

But  having  luckily  the  key  o'  the  back  door, 
He  fondly  hoped  that,  unperceived,  he 

Might  creep  up  stairs  again,  pretend  to  doze, 

And  hoax  his  spouse  with  music  from  his  nose. 

Vain  fruitless  hope  ! — The  wearied  sentinel 
At  eve  may  overlook  the  crouching  foe, 

Till,  ere  his  hand  can  sound  the  alarum-bell, 
He  sinks  beneath  the  unexpected  blow ; 

Before  the  whiskers  of  Grimalkin  fell, 

When  slumb'ring  on  her  post,  the  mouse  may  go  >  — 

But  woman,  wakeful  woman,  's  never  weary, 

— Above  all,  when  she  waits  to  thump  her  deary. 

Soon  Mrs.  Mason  heard  the  well-known  tread ; 

She  heard  the  key  slow  creaking  in  the  door, 
Spied  through  the  gloom  obscure,  toward  the  bed 

Nick  creeping  soft,  as  oft  he  had  crept  before ; 
When,  bang,  she  threw  a  something  at  his  head, 

And  Nick  at  once  lay  prostrate  on  the  floor ; 
While  she  exclaim'd  with  her  indignant  face  on, — 
"  How  dare  you  use  your  wifo  so,  Mr.  Mason?" 


NARRATIVE.  133 

Spare  we  to  tell  how  fiercely  she  debated, 

Especially  the  length  of  her  oration, — 
Spare  we  to  tell  how  Nick  expostulated, 

Roused  by  the  bump  into  a  good  set  passion, 
So  great,  that  more  than  once  he  execrated, 

Ere  he  crawl'd  into  bed  in  his  usual  fashion ; 
— The  Muses  hate  brawls  ;  suffice  it  then  to  say, 
He  duck'd  below  the  clothes — and  there  he  lay :  . 

'Twas  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night, 

When  church-yards  groan,  and  graves  give  up  their  dead, 

And  many  a  mischievous,  enfranchised  Sprite 
Had  long  since  burst  his  bonds  of  stone  or  lead, 

And  hurried  off,  with  schoolboy-like  delight, 
To  play  his  pranks  near  some  poor  wretch's  bed, 

Sleeping,  perhaps,  serenely  as  a  porpoise, 

Nor  dreaming  of  this  fiendish  Habeas  Corpus. 

Not  so  our  Nicholas,  his  meditations 

Still  to  the  same  tremendous  theme  recurred, 

The  same  dread  subject  of  the  dark  narrations, 
Which,  back'd  with  such  authority,  he  'd  heard; 

Lost  in  his  own  horrific  contemplations, 

He  pondered  o'er  each  well-remembered  word ; 

When  at  the  bed's  foot,  close  beside  the  post, 

He  verily  believed  he  saw — a  Ghost ! 

Plain  and  more  plain  the  unsubstantial  Sprite 

To  his  astonish'd  gaze  each  moment  grew ; 
Ghastly  and  gaunt,  it  rear'd  its  shadowy  height, 

Of  more  than  mortal  seeming  to  the  view, 
And  round  its  long,  thin,  bony  fingers  drew 

A  tatter'd  winding-sheet,  of  course  all  white; — 
The  moon  that  moment  peeping  through  a  cloud, 
Nick  very  plainly  saw  it  through  the  shroud  ! 

And  now  those  matted  locks,  which  never  yet 

Had  yielded  to  the  comb's  unkind  divorce, 
Their  long-contracted  amity  forget, 

And  spring  asunder  with  elastic  force  j 
Nay,  e'en  the  very  cap,  of  texture  coarse, 

Whose  ruby  cincture  crown'd  that  brow  of  jet, 
Uprose  in  agony — the  Gorgon's  head 
Was  but  a  type  of  Nick's  up-squatting  in  the  bed. 


134  NARRATIVE. 

From  every  pore  distill'd  a  clammy  dew, 

Quaked  every  limb, — the  candle  too  no  doubt, 

En  regie,  would  have  burnt  extremely  blue, 
But  Nick  unluckily  had  put  it  out ; 

And  he,  though  naturally  bold  and  stout, 
In  short,  was  in  a  most  tremendous  stew ; — 

The  room  was  fill'd  with  a  sulphureous  smell, 

But  where  that  came  from  Mason  could  not  tell. 

All  motionless  the  Specter  stood, — and  now 
Its  reverend  form  more  clearly  shone  confest  j 

From  the  pale  cheek  a  beard  of  purest  snow 
Descended  o'er  its  venerable  breast ; 

The  thin  gray  hairs,  that  crown'd  its  furrow' d  brow, 
Told  of  years  long  gone  by. — An  awful  guest 

It  stood,  and  with  an  action  of  command, 

Beckon' d  the  Cobbler  with  its  wan  right  hand. 

"  Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  Execrable  Shape?" 
Nick  might  have  cried,  could  he  have  found  a  tongue, 

But  his  distended  jaws  could  only  gape, 
And  not  a  sound  upon  the  welkin  rung . 

His  gooseberry  orbs  seem'd  as  they  would  have  sprung 
Forth  from  their  sockets, — like  a  frightened  Ape 

He  sat  upon  his  haunches,  bolt  upright, 

And  shook,  and  grinn'd,  and  chatter'd  with  affright. 

And  still  the  shadowy  finger,  long  and  lean, 
Now  beckon' d  Nick,  now  pointed  to  the  door ; 

And  many  an  ireful  glance,  and  frown,  between, 
The  angry  visage  of  the  Phantom  wore, 

As  if  quite  vexed  that  Nick  would  do  no  more 

Than  stare,  without  e'en  asking,  "  What  d'  ye  mean  ?" 

Because,  as  we  are  told, — a  sad  old  joke  too, — 

Ghosts,  like  the  ladies,  "  never  speak  till  spoke  to." 

Cowards,  'tis  said,  in  certain  situations, 

Derive  a  sort  of  courage  from  despair, 
And  then  perform,  from  downright  desperation, 

Much  more  than  many  a  bolder  man  would  dare. 
Nick  saw  the  Ghost  was  getting  in  a  passion, 

And  therefore,  groping  till  he  found  the  chair, 
Seized  on  his  awl,  crept  softly  out  of  bed, 
And  follow'd  quaking  where  the  Specter  led. 


NARRATIVE.  1,35 

And  down  the  winding  stair,  with  noiseless  tread, 

The  tenant  of  the  tomb  pass'd  slowly  on, 
Each  mazy  turning  of  the  humble  shed 

Seem'd  to  his  step  at  once  familiar  grown, 
So  safe  and  sure  the  labyrinth  did  he  tread 

As  though  the  domicile  had  been  his  own, 
Though  Nick  himself,  in  passing  through  the  shop, 
Had  almost  broke  his  nose  against  the  mop. 

Despite  its  wooden  bolt,  with  jarring  sound, 

The  door  upon  its  hinges  open  flew ; 
And  forth  the  Spirit  issued, — yet  around 

It  turn'd  as  if  its  follower's  fears  it  knew, 
And  once  more  beckoning,  pointed  to  the  mound, 

The  antique  Keep,  on  which  the  bright  moon  threw 
With  such  effulgence  her  mild  silvery  gleam, 
The  visionary  form  seem'd  melting  in  her  beam. 

Beneath  a  pond'rous  archway's  somber  shade, 
Where  once  the  huge  portcullis  swung  sublime, 

'Mid  ivied  battlements  in  ruin  laid, 
Sole,  sad  memorials  of  the  olden  time, 

The  Phantom  held  its  way, — and  though  afraid 
Even  of  the  owls  that  sung  their  vesper  chime, 

Pale  Nicholas  pursued,  its  steps  attending, 

And  wondering  what  on  earth  it  all  would  end  in. 

Within  the  moldering  fabric's  deep  recess 

At  length  they  reach  a  court  obscure  and  lone  ; 

It  seemed  a  drear  and  desolate  wilderness, 
The  blackened  walls  with  ivy  all  o'ergrown  ; 

The  night-bird  shrieked  her  note  of  wild  distress, 
Disturb'd  upon  her  solitary  throne, 

As  though  indignant  mortal  step  should  dare, 

So  led,  at  such  an  hour,  should  venture  there  ! 

— The  Apparition  paused,  and  would  have  spoke, 

Pointing  to  what  Nick  thought  an  iron  ring, 
But  then  a  neighboring  chanticleer  awoke, 

And  loudly  'gan  his  early  matins  sing ; 
And  then  "  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing," 

As  that  shrill  clarion  the  silence  broke. 
— We  know  how  much  dead  gentlefolks  eschew 
The  appalling  sound  of  "  Cock-a-doodle-do !" 


136  NARKATIVE. 

The  vision  was  no  more — and  Nick  alone — 

"  His  streamer's  waving"  in  the  midnight  wind, 

Which  through  the  ruins  ceased  not  to  groan ; 

— His  garment,  too,  was  somewhat  short  behind, — 

And,  worst  of  all,  he  knew  not  where  to  find 

The  ring, — which  made  him  most  his  fate  bemoan — 

The  iron  ring, — no  doubt  of  some  trap  door, 

'Neath  which  the  old  dead  Miser  kept  his-  store. 

"  What's  to  be  done  ?"  he  cried,  "  't  were  vain  to  stay 
Here  in  the  dark  without  a  single  clew — 

Oh,  for  a  candle  now,  or  moonlight  ray ! 

Tore  George,  I  'm  sadly  puzzled  what  to  do." 

(Then  clapped  his  hand  behind) — "  'Tis  chilly  too— 
I  '11  mark  the  spot,  and  corne  again  by  day. 

What  can  I  mark  it  by  ? — Oh,  here 's  the  wall — 

The  mortar's  yielding — here  I  '11  stick  my  awl  1" 

Then  rose  from  earth  to  sky  a  withering  shriek, 

A  loud,  a  long-protracted  note  of  woe, 
Such  as  when  tempests  roar,  and  timbers  creak, 

And  o'er  the  side  the  masts  in  thunder  go ; 
While  on  the  deck  resistless  billows  break, 

And  drag  their  victims  to  the  gulfs  below ; — 
Such  was  the  scream  when,  for  the  want  of  candle, 
Nick  Mason  drove  his  awl  in  up  to  the  handle. 

Scared  by  his  Lady's  heart-appalling  cry, 

Vanished  at  once  poor  Mason's  golden  dream — 

For  dream  it  was ; — and  all  his  visions  high, 

Of  wealth  and  grandeur,  fled  before  that  scream — 

And  still  he  listens,  with  averted  eyr, 

When  gibing  neighbors  make  "  the  Ghost"  their  theme 

While  ever  from  that  hour  they  all  declare 

That  Mrs.  Mason  used  a  cushion  in  her  chair  1 


A   LAY  OF  ST.   GENGULPHUS. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 

GENGULPHUS  comes  from  the  Holy  Land, 

With  his  scrip,  and  his  bottle,  and  sandal  shoon  ; 

Full  many  a  day  hath  he  been  away, 

Yet  his  lady  deems  him  return'd  full  soon. 


NARRATIVE.  137 

Full  many  a  day  hath  he  been  away, 

Yet  scarce  had  he  crossed  ayont  the  sea, 
Ere  a  spruce  young  spark  of  a  Learned  Clerk 

Had  called  on  his  Lady,  and  stopp'd  to  tea. 

.This  spruce  young  guest,  so  trimly  drest, 

Stuy'd  with  that  Lady,  her  revels  to  crown ; 
They  laugh'd,  and  they  ate,  and  they  drank  of  the  best, 

And  they  turn'd  the  old  castle  quite  upside  down. 

They  would  walk  in  the  park,  that  spruce  young  Clerk, 

With  that  frolicsome  Lady  so  frank  and  free, 
Trying  balls  and  plays,  and  all  manner  of  ways, 

To  get  rid  of  what  French  people  call  Ennui. 

*  ******* 

Now  the  festive  board  with  viands  is  stored, 

Savory  dishes  be  there,  I  ween, 
Rich  puddings  and  big,  and  a  barbacued  pig, 

And  ox-tail  soup  in  a  China  tureen. 

There 's  a  flagon  of  ale  as  large  as  a  pail — 

When,  cockle  on  hat,  and  staff  in  hand, 
While  on  naught  they  are  thinking  save  eating  and  drinking, 

Gengulphus  walks  in  from  the  Holy  Land ! 

"  You  must  be  pretty  deep  to  catch  weasels  asleep," 
Says  the  proverb:  that  is  "take  the  Fair  unawares:" 

A  maid  o'er  the  banisters  chancing  to  peep, 

Whispers,  "  Ma'am,  here 's  Gengulphus  a-coming  up-stairs.' 

Pig,  pudding,  and  soup,  the  electrified  group, 

With  the  flagon  pop  under  the  sofa  in  haste, 
And  contrive  to  deposit  the  Clerk  in  the  closet, 

As  the  dish  least  of  all  to  G-engulphus's  taste. 

Then  oh  1  what  rapture,  what  joy  was  exprest, 
When  "  poor  dear  Gengulphus"  at  last  appear'd  ! 

She  kiss'd  and  she  press'd  "  the  dear  man"  to  her  breast, 
In  spite  of  his  great,  long,  frizzly  beard." 

Such  hugging  and  squeezing !  't  was  almost  unpleasing, 

A  smile  on  her  lip,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye  ; 
She  was  so  very  glad,  that  she  seem'd  half  mad, 

And  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  cry. 


138  NARRATIVE. 

Then  she  calls  up  the  maid  and  the  table-cloth 's  laid, 
And  she  sends  for  a  pint  of  the  best  Brown  Stout ; 

On  the  fire,  too,  she  pops  some  nice  mutton-chops, 
And  she  mixes  a  stiff  glass  of  "  Cold  Without." 

Then  again  she  began  at  the  "  poor  dear"  man  ; 

She  press'd  him  to  drink,  and  she  press'd  him  to  eat, 
And  she  brought  a  foot-pan,  with  hot  water  and  bran, 

To  comfort  his  "  poor  dear"  travel-worn  feet. 

"  Nor  night  nor  day  since  he  'd  been  away, 
Had  she  had  any  rest,"  she  "  vow'd  and  declared." 

She  "  never  could  eat  one  morsel  of  meat, 

For  thinking  how  *  poor  dear'  Gengulphus  fared." 

She  "  really  did  think  she  had  not  slept  a  wink 

Since  he  left  her,  although  he  'd  been  absent  so  long," 

Here  he  shook  his  head, — right  little  he  said, 

But  he  thought  she  was  "  coming  it  rather  too  strong." 

Now  his  palate  she  tickles  with  the  chops  and  the  pickles, 
Till,  so  great  the  effect  of  that  stiff  gin  grog, 

His  weaken'd  body,  subdued  by  the  toddy, 
Falls  out  of  the  chair,  and  he  lies  like  a  log. 

Then  out  comes  the  Clerk  from  his  secret  lair ; 

He  lifts  up  the  legs,  and  she  lifts  up  the  head, 
And,  between  them,  this  most  reprehensible  pair 

Undress  poor  Gengulphus  and  put  him  to  bed. 

Then  the  bolster  they  place  athwart  his  face, 

And  his  night-cap  into  his  mouth  they  cram  ; 
And  she  pinches  his  nose  underneath  the  clothes, 

Till  the  "  poor  dear  soul"  goes  off  like  a  lamb. 

******* 
And  now  they  tried  the  deed  to  hide ; 

For  a  little  bird  whisper'd  "  Perchance  you  may  swing ; 
Here 's  a  corpse  in  the  case,  with  a  sad  swell' d  face, 

And  a  Medical  Crowner  's  a  queer  sort  of  thing !" 

So  the  Clerk  and  the  wife,  they  each  took  a  knife, 
And  the  nippers  that  nipp'd  the  loaf-sugar  for  tea ; 

With  the  edges  and  points  they  sever'd  the  joints 
At  the  clavicle,  elbow,  hip,  ankle,  and  knee. 


NARRATIVE.  139 

Thus,  limb  from  limb,  they  dismember'd  him 

So  entirely,  that  e'en  when  they  came  to  his  wrists, 

With  those  great  sugar-nippers  they  nipped  off  his  "  flippers," 
As  the  Clerk,  very  flippantly,  termed  his  fista 

When  they  cut  off  his  head,  entertaining  a  dread 
Lest  the  folks  should  remember  Gengulplms's  face, 

They  determined  to  throw  it  where  no  one  could  know  it, 
Down  the  well, — and  the  limbs  in  some  different  place. 

But  first  the  long  beard  from  the  chin  they  shear'd, 

And  managed  to  stuff  that  sanctified  hair, 
With  a  good  deal  of  pushing,  ah1  into  the  cushion 

That  filled  up  the  seat  of  a  large  arm-chair. 

They  contriv'd  to  pack  up  the  trunk  in  a  sack, 
Which  they  hid  in  an  osier-bed  outside  the  town, 

The  Clerk  bearing  arms,  legs,  and  all  on  his  back, 
As  that  vile  Mr.  Greenacre  served  Mrs.  Brown. 

But  to  see  now  how  strangely  things  sometimes  turn  out, 

And  that  in  a  manner  the  least  expected ! 
Who  could  surmise  a  man  ever  could  rise 

Who  'd  been  thus  carbonado'd,  cut  up,  and  dissected  ? 

No  doubt 't  would  surprise  the  pupils  at  Guy's ; 

I  am  no  unbeliever — no  man  can  say  that  o'  me — 
But  St.  Thomas  himself  would  scarce  trust  his  own  eyes 

If  he  saw  such  a  thing  in  his  School  of  Anatomy. 

You  may  deal  as  you  please  with  Hindoos  and  Chinese, 
Or  a  Mussulman  making  Ms  heathen  salaam,  or 

A  Jew  or  a  Turk,  but  it 's  rather  guess  work 

When  a  man  has  to  do  with  a  Pilgrim  or  Palmer. 

sit  ****** 

By  chance  the  Prince  Bishop,  a  Royal  Divine, 

Sends  his  cards  round  the  neighborhood  next  day,  and  urges  his 
Wish  to  receive  a  snug  party  to  dine, 

Of  the  resident  clergy,  the  gentry,  and  burgesses. 

At  a  quarter  past  five  they  are  all  alive, 

At  the  palace,  for  coaches  are  fast  rolling  in , 
And  to  every  guest  his  card  had  express'd 

"  Half-past"  as  the  hour  for  "  a  greasy  chin." 


14G  NAKKATIVE. 

Some  thirty  are  seated,  and  handsomely  treated 

With  the  choicest  Ehine  wine  in  his  Highness's  stock ; 

When  a  Count  of  the  Empire,  who  felt  himself  heated, 
Requested  some  water  to  mix  with  his  Hock. 

The  Butler,  who  saw  it,  sent  a  maid  out  to  draw  it, 
But  scarce  had  she  given  the  windlass  a  twirl, 

Ere  Grengulphus's  head,  from  the  well's  bottom,  said 
In  mild  accents,  "  Do  help  us  out,  that 's  a  good  girl !" 

Only  fancy  her  dread  when  she  saw  a  great  head 

In  her  bucket ; — with  fright  she  was  ready  to  drop : — 

Conceive,  if  you  can,  how  she  roar'd  and  she  ran, 

With  the  head  rolling  after  her,  bawling  out  "  Stop  1" 

She  ran  and  she  roar'd,  till  she  came  to  the  board 
Where  the  Prince  Bishop  sat  with  his  party  around, 

When  Gengulphus's  poll,  which  continued  to  roll 
At  her  heels,  on  the  table  bounced  up  with  a  bound. 

Never  touching  the  cates,  or  the  dishes  or  plates, 
The  decanters  or  glasses,  the  sweetmeats  or  fruits, 

The  head  smiles,  and  begs  them  to  bring  his  legs, 
As  a  well-spoken  gentleman  asks  for  his  boots. 

Kicking  open  the  casement,  to  each  one's  amazement 
Straight  a  right  leg  steps  in,  all  impediment  scorns, 

And  near  the  head  stopping,  a  left  follows  hopping 
Beliind, — for  the  left  leg  was  troubled  with  corns. 

Next,  before  the  beholders,  two  great  brawny  shoulders, 
And  arms  on  their  bent  elbows  dance  through  the  throng, 

While  two  hands  assist,  though  nipped  off  at  the  wrist, 
The  said  shoulders  in  bearing  the  body  along. 

They  march  up  to  the  head,  not  one  syllable  said, 
For  the  thirty  guests  all  stare  in  wonder  and  doubt, 

As  the  limbs  in  their  sight  arrange  and  unite, 

Till  G-engulphus,  though  dead,  looks  as  sound  as  a  trout 

I  will  venture  to  say,  from  that  hour  to  this  day, 
Ne'er  did  such  an  assembly  behold  such  a  scene  j 

Or  a  table  divide  fifteen  guests  of  a  side 

With  a  dead  body  placed  in  the  center  between. 


NARRATIVE.  141 

Yes,  they  stared — well  they  might  at  so  novel  a  sight : 

No  one  utter' d  a  whisper,  a  sneeze,  or  a  hem, 
But  sat  all  bolt  upright,  and  pale  with  affright ; 

And  they  gazed  at  the  dead  man,  the  dead  man  at  them. 

The  Prince  Bishop's  Jester,  on  punning  intent, 
As  he  view'd  the  whole  thirty,  in  jocular  terms 

Said  "  They  put  him  in  mind  of  a  Council  of  Trent* 
Engaged  in  reviewing  the  Diet  of  Worms." 

But  what  should  they  do  ? — Oh !  nobody  knew 

"What  was  best  to  be  done,  either  stranger  or  resident ; 

The  Chancellor's  self  read  his  Puffendorf  through 
In  vain,  for  his  book  could  not  furnish  a  precedent. 

The  Prince  Bishop  mutter' d  a  curse,  and  a  prayer, 

Which  his  double  capacity  hit  to  a  nicety  ; 
His  Princely,  or  Lay,  half  induced  him  to  swear, 

His  Episcopal  moiety  said  "  Benedicite  /" 

The  Coroner  sat  on  the  body  that  night, 

And  the  jury  agreed, — not  a  doubt  could  they  harbor, — 
"  That  the  chin  of  the  corpse — the  sole  thing  brought  to  light — 

Had  been  recently  shav'd  by  a  very  bad  barber." 

They  sent  out  Van  Taiinsend,  Von  Biimie,  Von  Roe, 

Von  Maine,  and  Von  Rowantz — through  chalets  and  chateaux, 

Towns,  villages,  hamlets,  they  told  them  to  go, 

And  they  stuck  up  placards  on  the  walls  of  the  Stadthaus. 


" MURDER!  ! 

*• 

"  WHEREAS,  a  dead  gentleman,  surname  unknown, 

.  Has  been  recently  found  at  his  Highness's  banquet. 
Rather  shabbily  dressed  in  an  Amice,  or  gown 
In  appearance  resembling  a  second-hand  blanket; 

"  And  WHEREAS,  there  's  great  reason  indeed  to  suspect 
That  some  ill-disposed  person,  or  persons,  with  malice 

Aforethought,  have  kill'd,  and  begun  to  dissect 
The  said  Gentleman,  not  far  from  this  palace  • 


142  NARRATIVE. 

"  Tms  is  TO  GIVE  NOTICE  ! — Whoever  shall  seize, 
And  such  person  or  persons,  to  justice  surrender, 

Shall  receive — such  REWARD — as  his  Highness  shall  please, 
On  conviction  of  him,  the  aforesaid  offender. 

"  And,  in  order  the  matter  more  clearly  to  trace 

To  the  bottom,  his  Highness,  the  Prince  Bishop,  further, 

Of  his  clemency,  offers  free  PARDON  and  Grace 

To  all  such  as  have  not  been  concern' d  in  the  murther. 

"  Done  this  day,  at  our  palace, — July  twenty-five, — 
By  command, 

(Signed) 

Johann  Von  Russell, 

KB. 

Deceased  rather  in  years — had  a  squint  when  alive ; 
And  smells  slightly  of  gin — linen  marked  with  a  G." 

The  Newspapers,  too,  made  no  little  ado, 

Though  a  different  version  each  managed  to  dish  up ; 

Some  said  "  The  Prince  Bishop  had  run  a  man  through," 
Others  said  "  an  assassin  had  kill'd  the  Prince  Bishop." 

The  "  Ghent  Herald"  fell  foul  of  the  "  Bruxelles  Gazette," 
The  "  Bruxelles  Gazette,"  with  much  sneering  ironical, 

Scorn' d  to  remain  in  the  "  Ghent  Herald's"  debt, 

And  the  "  Amsterdam  Times"  quizz'd  the  "  Nuremberg  Chron 
icle." 

In  one  thing,  indeed,  all  the  journals  agreed, 

Spite  of  "  politics,"  "  bias,"  or  "  party  collision  ;" 

Yiz. :  to  "  give,"  when  they  'd  "  further  accounts"  of  the  deed, 
"  Full  particulars"  soon,  in  "  a  later  Edition." 

But  now,  while  on  all  sides  they  rode  and  they  ran, 
Trying  all  sorts  of  means  to  discover  the  caitiffs, 

Losing  patience,  the  holy  Gengulphus  began 
To  think  it  high  time  to  "  astonish  the  natives." 

First,  a  Rittmeister's  Frau,  who  was  weak  in  both  eyes, 
And  supposed  the  most  short-sighted  woman  in  Holland, 

Found  greater  relief,  to  her  joy  and  surprise, 

From  one  glimpse  of  his  "  squint"  than  from  glasses  by  Dol- 
lond. 


NARRATIVE.  143 

By  the  slightest  approach  to  the  tip  of  his  Nose, 

Meagrims,  headache,  and  vapors  were  put  to  the  rout ; 

And  one  single  touch  of  his  precious  Great  Toes 
Was  a  certain  specific  for  cliillblains  and  gout. 

Rheumatics, — sciatica, — tic-douloureux ! 

Apply  to  his  shin-bones — not  one  of  them  lingers ; — 
All  bilious  complaints  in  an  instant  withdrew, 

If  the  patient  was  tickled  with  one  of  his  fingers. 

Much  virtue  was  found  to  reside  in  his  thumbs : 

When  applied  to  the  chest,  they  cured  scantness  of  breathing, 

Sea-sickness,  and  colic ;  or,  rubb'd  on  the  gums, 

Were  "A  blessing  to  Mothers,"  for  infants  in  teething. 

Whoever  saluted  the  nape  of  his  neck, 

Where  the  mark  remain' d  visible  still  of  the  knife, 

Notwithstanding  east  winds  perspiration  might  check, 
Was  safe  from  sore-throat  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

Thus,  while  each  acute  and  each  chronic  complaint 
Giving  way,  proved  an  influence  clearly  Divine, 

They  perceived  the  dead  Gentleman  must  be  a  Saint, 
So  they  lock'd  him  up,  body  and  bones,  in  a  shrine. 

Through  country  and  town  his  new  Saintship's  renown 

As  a  first-rate  physician  kept  daily  increasing, 
Till,  as  Alderman  Curtis  told  Alderman  Brown, 

It  seem'd  as  if  "  Wonders  had  never  done  ceasing." 

The  Three  Kings  of  Cologne  began,  it  was  known, 

A  sad  falling  off  in  their  offerings  to  find, 
His  feats  were  so  many — still  the  greatest  of  any, — 

In  every  sense  t>f  the  word,  was — behind  • 

For  the  German  Police  were  beginning  to  cease 

From  exertions  which  each  day  more  fruitless  appear'd, 

When  Gengulphus  himself,  his  fame  still  to  increase, 
Unravell' d  the  whole  by  the  help  of — his  beard ! 

If  you  look  back  you  '11  see  the  aforesaid  barbe  gi'is, 

When  divorced  from  the  chin  of  its  murder'd  proprietor, 

Had  been  stuffed  in  the  seat  of  a  kind  of  settee, 
Or  double-arm'd  chair,  to  keep  the  thing  quieter. 


144  NARRATIVE. 

It  may  seem  rather  strange,  that  it  did  not  arrange 
Itself  in  its  place  when  the  limbs  join'd  together ; 

Perhaps  it  could  not  get  out,  for  the  cushion  was  stout, 
And  constructed  of  good,  strong,  maroon-color'd  leather 

Or  what  is  more  likely,  Gengulphus  might  choose, 
For  saints,  e'en  when  dead,  still  retain  their  volition, 

It  should  rest  there,  to  aid  some  particular  views, 
Produced  by  his  very  peculiar  position. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  on  the  very  first  day 

That  the  widow  G-engulphus  sat  down  on  that  settee, 
What  occur' d  almost  frightened  her  senses  away, 

Beside  scaring  her  hand-maidens,  Gertrude  and  Betty. 

They  were  telling  their  mistress  the  wonderful  deeds 

Of  the  new  Saint,  to  whom  all  the  Town  said  their  orisons : 

And  especially  how,  as  regards  invalids, 

His  miraculous  cures  far  outrival'd  Yon  Morison's. 

"  The  cripples,"  said  they,  "  fling  their  crutches  away, 
And  people  born  blind  now  can  easily  see  us !" 

But  she  (we  presume,  a  disciple  of  Hume) 

Shook  her  head,  and  said  angrily,  "  '  Oredat  Jadcsus  /' 

"  Those  rascally  liars,  the  Monks  and  the  Friars, 

To  bring  grist  to  their  mill,  these  devices  have  hit  on. 

He  works  miracles  ! — pooh ! — I  'd  believe  it  of  you 

Just  as  soon,  you  great  Geese, — or  the  Chair  that  I  sit  on  I" 

The  Chair — at  that  word — it  seems  really  absurd, 

But  the  truth  must  be  told, — what  contortions  and  grins 

Distorted  her  face ! — She  sprang  up  from  her  place 
Just  as  though  she'd  been  sitting  on  needles  and  pins ! 

For,  as  if  the  Saint's  beard  the  rash  challenge  had  heard 
Which  she  utter' d,  of  what  was  beneath  her  forgetful, 

Each  particular  hair  stood  on  end  in  the  chair, 

Like  a  porcupine's  quills  when  the  animal 's  fretful. 

That  stout  maroon  leather,  they  pierced  altogether, 
Like  tenter-hooks  holding  when  clench'd  from  witliin, 

And  the  maids  cried — "  Good  gracious !  how  very  tenacious  1" 
— They  as  well  might  endeavor  to  pull  off  her  skin ! — 


NARRATIVE.  146 

She  shriek'd  with  the  pain,  but  all  efforts  were  vain ; 

In  vain  did  they  strain  every  sinew  and  muscle, — 
The  cushion  stuck  fast ! — From  that  hour  to  her  last 

She  could  never  get  rid  of  that  comfortless  "  Bustle"  ! 

And  e'en  as  Macbeth,  when  devising  the  death 

Of  his  King,  heard  "  the  very  stones  prate  of  his  whereabouts ;'' 
So  this  shocking  bad  wife  heard  a  voice  all  her  life 

Crying  "Murder!"  resound  from  the  cushion, — or  thereabouts. 

With  regard  to  the  Clerk,  we  are  left  in  the  dark 
As  to  what  his  fate  was ;  but  I  can  not  imagine  he 

Got  off  scot-free,  though  unnoticed  it  be 

Both  by  Ribadaneira  and  Jacques  de  Voragine : 

For  cut-throats,  we  're  sure,  can  be  never  secure, 

And  "  History's  Muse"  still  to  prove  it  her  pen  holds, 

As  you  '11  see,  if  you  '11  look  in  a  rather  scarce  book, 
"  God's  Revenge  against  Murder"  by  one  Mr.  Reynolds. 


MORAL. 

Now,  you  grave  married  Pilgrims,  who  wander  away, 
Like  Ulysses  of  old  (vide  Homer  and  Naso), 

Don't  lengthen  your  stay  to  three  years  and  a  day, 

And  when  you  are  coming  home,  just  write  and  say  so  ! 

And  you,  learned  Clerks,  who  're  not  given  to  roam, 
Stick  dose  to  your  books,  nor  lose  sight  of  decorum , 

Don't  visit  a  house  when  the  master's  from  home  ! 
Shun  drinking, — and  study  the  "Vita:  Sanctorum!" 

Above  all,  you  gay  ladies,  who  fancy  neglect 
In  your  spouses,  allow  not  your  patience  to  fail ; 

But  remember  Gengulphus's  wife  ! — and  reflect 
On  the  moral  enforced  by  her  terrible  tale ! 


146  NARRATIVE. 


SIR    RUPERT    THE    FEARLESS. 

A   LEGEND   OF   GERMANY. 

R.    HARRIS   BARIIAM. 

SIR  RUPERT  the  Fearless,  a  gallant  young  knight, 
Was  equally  ready  to  tipple  or  fight, 

Crack  a  crown,  or  a  bottle, 

Cut  sirloin,  or  throttle  ; 

In  brief,  or  as  Hume  says,  "  to  sum  up  the  tottle,'" 
Unstain'd  by  dishonor,  unsullied  by  fear, 
All  his  neighbors  pronounced  him  a  preux  chevalier. 

Despite  these  perfections,  corporeal  and  mental, 
He  had  one  slight  defect,  viz.,  a  rather  lean  rental ; 
Besides,  'tis  own'd  there  are  spots  in  the  sun, 
So  it  must  be  confess'd  that  Sir  Rupert  had  one  ; 

Being  rather  unthinking, 

He'd  scarce  sleep  a  wink  in 
A  night,  but  addict  himself  sadly  to  drinking ; 

And  what  moralists  say, 

Is  as  naughty — to  play, 

To  Rouge  et  Noir,  Hazard,  Short  Whist,  Ecarte  ; 
Till  these,  and  a  few  less  defensible  fancies 
Brought  the  Knight  to  the  end  of  his  slender  finances. 

When  at  length  through  his  boozing, 

And  tenants  refusing 
Their  rents,  swearing  "  times  were  so  bad  they  were  losing," 

His  steward  said,  "  0,  sir, 

It's  some  time  ago,  sir, 

Since  aught  through  my  hands  reach' d  the  baker  or  grocer, 
And  the  tradesmen  in  general  are  grown  great  complainers." 
Sir  Rupert  the  brave  thus  address'd  his  retainers : 

"  My  friends,  since  the  stock 

Of  my  father's  old  hock 

Is  out,  with  the  Kiirchwasser,  Barsac,  Moselle, 
And  we  're  fairly  reduced  to  the  pump  and  the  well, 

I  presume  to  suggest, 

We  shall  all  find  it  best 

For  each  to  shake  hands  with  his  friends  ere  he  goes, 
Mount  his  horse,  if  he  has  one,  and — follow  his  nose ; 


NARRATIVE.  147 

As  to  me,  I  opine, 

Left  sans  money  or  wine, 

My  best  way  is  to  throw  myself  into  the  Rhine, 
Where  pitying  trav'lers  may  sigh,  as  they  cross  over, 
1  Though  he  lived  a  roue,  yet  he  died  a  philosopher.'  " 

The  Knight,  having  bow'd  out  his  friends  thus  politely, 
Got  into  his  skiff,  the  full  moon  shining  brightly, 

By  the  light  of  whose  beam, 

He  soon  spied  on  the  stream 
A  dame,  whose  complexion  was  fair  as  new  cream ; 

Pretty  pink  silken  hose 

Cover'd  ankles  and  toes, 
In  other  respects  she  was  scanty  of  clothes ; 
For,  so  says  tradition,  both  written  and  oral, 
Her  one  garment  was  loop'd  up  with  bunches  of  coral. 

Full  sweetly  she  sang  to  a  sparkling  guitar, 
With  silver  chords  stretch'd  over  Derbyshire  spar, 

And  she  smiled  on  the  Knight, 

Who,  amazed  at  the  sight, 
Soon  found  his  astonishment  merged  in  delight ; 

But  the  stream  by  degrees 

Now  rose  up  to  her  knees, 
Till  at  length  it  invaded  her  very  chemise, 
While  the  heavenly  strain,  as  the  wave  seeni'd  to  swallow  her, 
And  slowly  she  sank,  sounded  fainter  and  hollower ; 

—Jumping  up  in  his  boat 

And  discarding  his  coat, 

"Here  goes,"  cried  Sir  Rupert,  "  by  jingo  I  '11  follow  her  1" 
Then  into  the  water  he  plunged  with  a  souse 
That  was  heard  quite  distinctly  by  those  in  the  house. 

Down,  down,  forty  fathom  and  more  from  the  brink, 
Sir  Rupert  the  Fearless  continues  to  sink, 

And,  aa  downward  he  goes, 

Still  the  cold  water  flows 

Through  his  ears,  and  his  eyes,  and  his  mouth,  and  his  nose, 
Till  the  rum  and  the  brandy  he  'd  swallow'd  since  lunch 
Wanted  nothing  but  lemon  to  fill  him  with  punch ; 
Some  minutes  elapsed  since  he  enter' d  the  flood, 
Ere  his  heels  touch' d  the  bottom,  and  stuck  in  the  mud. 


148  NARRATIVE. 

But  oh !  what  a  sight 

Met  the  eyes  of  the  Knight, 
When  he  stood  in  the  depth  of  the  stream  bolt  upright ! — 

A  grand  stalactite  hall, 

Like  the  cave  of  Fingal, 

Rose  above  and  about  him; — great  fishes  and  small 
Came  thronging  around  him,  regardless  of  danger, 
And  seem'd  all  agog  for  a  peep  at  the  stranger. 
Their  figures  and  forms  to  describe,  language  fails — 
They  'd  such  very  odd  heads,  and  such  very  odd  tails ; 
Of  their  genus  or  species  a  sample  to  gain, 
You  would  ransack  all  Hungerford  market  in  vain  ; 

E'en  the  famed  Mr.  Myers, 

Would  scarcely  find  buyers, 

Though  hundreds  of  passengers  doubtless  would  stop 
To  stare,  were  such  monsters  exposed  in  his  shop. 

But  little  reck'd  Rupert  these  queer-looking  brutes, 

Or  the  efts  and  the  newts 

That  crawled  up  his  boots, 

For  a  sight,  beyond  any  of  which  I  've  made  mention, 
In  a  moment  completely  absorb'd  his  attention. 
A  huge  crystal  bath,  which,  with  water  far  clearer 
Than  George  Robins'  filters,  or  Thorpe's  (which  are  dearer), 

Have  ever  distill'd, 

To  the  summit  was  fill'd, 
Lay  stretch'd  out  before  him — and  every  nerve  thrill'd 

As  scores  of  young  women 

Were  diving  and  swimming, 
Till  the  vision  a  perfect  quandary  put  him  in ; — 
Alf  slightly  accoutred  in  gauzes  and  lawns, 
They  came  floating  about  him  like  so  many  prawns. 


Sir  Rupert,  who  (barring  the  few  peccadilloes 

Alluded  to),  ere  he  lept  into  the  billows 

Possess'd  irreproachable  morals,  began 

To  feel  rather  queer,  as  a  modest  young  man ; 

When  forth  stepp'd  a  dame,  whom  he  recognized  soon 

As  the  one  he  had  seen  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

And  lisp'd,  while  a  soft  smile  attended  each  sentence, 

"Sir  Rupert.  I'm  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance; 


N A  R  R  AT  I  VE.  149 

My  name  is  Lurline, 

And  the  ladies  you  've  seen, 
All  do  me  the  honor  to  call  me  their  Queen ; 
I  'm  delighted  to  see  you,  sir,  down  in  the  Rhine  here, 
And  hope  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  dine  here." 

The  Knight  blush'd,  and  bow'd, 

As  he  ogled  the  crowd 

Of  subaqueous  beauties,  then  answer' d  aloud : 
"  Ma'am,  you  do  me  much  honor — I  can  not  express 
The  delight  I  shall  feel — if  you  '11  pardon  my  dress — 
May  I  venture  to  say,  when  a  gentleman  jumps 
In  the  river  at  midnight  for  want  of  the  '  dumps,' 
He  rarely  puts  on  his  knee-breeches  and  pumps ; 
If  I  could  but  have  guess' d — what  I  sensibly  feel — 
Your  politeness — I  'd  not  have  come  en  dishabille, 
But  have  put  on  my  silk  tights  in  lieu  of  my  steel" 
Quoth  the  lady,  "  Dear  sir,  no  apologies,  pray, 
You  will  take  our  '  pot-luck'  in  the  family  way ; 

We  can  give  you  a  dish 

Of  some  decentish  fish, 

And  our  water's  thought  fairish  ;  but  here  in  the  Rhine, 
I  can't  say  we  pique  ourselves  much  on  our  wine." 

The  Knight  made  a  bow  more  profound  than  before, 
When  a  Dory-faced  page  oped  the  dining-room  door, 

And  said,  bending  his  knee, 

"Madame,  on  a  servi!" 

Rupert  tender'd  his  arm,  led  Lurline  to  her  place, 
And  a  fat  little  Mer-inan  stood  up  and  said  grace. 

What  boots  it  to  tell  of  the  viands,  or  how  she 
Apologized  much  for  their  plain  water-souchy, 

Want  of  Harvey's,  and  Cross's, 

And  Burgess's  sauces  ? 

Or  how  Rupert,  on  his  side,  protested,  by  Jove,  he 
Preferr'd  his  fish  plain,  without  soy  or  anchovy. 

Suffice  it  the  meal 

Boasted  trout,  perch,  and  eel, 
Besides  some  remarkably  fine  salmon  peel. 
The  Knight,  sooth  to  say,  thought  much  less  of  the  fishes 
Than  what  they  were  served  on,  the  massive  gold  dishes ; 


150  NARRATIVE. 

While  his  eye,  as  it  glanced  now  and  then  on  the  girls, 
Was  caught  by  their  persons  much  less  than  their  pearls, 
And  a  thought  came  across  him  and  caused  him  to  muse, 

If  I  could  but  get  hold 

Of  some  of  that  gold, 
I  might  manage  to  pay  off  my  rascally  Jews  I" 

When  dinner  was  done,  at  a  sign  to  the  lasses, 
The  table  was  clear' d,  and  they  put  on  fresh  glasses ; 

Then  the  lady  addrest 

Her  redoubtable  guest 
Much  as  Dido,  of  old,  did  the  pious  Eneas, 
"  Dear  sir,  what  induced  you  to  come  down  and  see  us  ?"- 
Rupert  gave  her  a  glance  most  bewitehingly  tender, 
Loll'd  back  in  his  chair,  put  his  toes  on  the  fender, 

And  told  her  outright 

How  that  he,  a  young  Knight, 
Had  never  been  last  at  a  feast  or  a  fight  ; 

But  that  keeping  good  cheer 

Every  day  in  the  year, 
And  drinking  neat  wines  all  the  same  as  small-beer, 

Had  exhausted  his  rent, 

And,  his  money  all  spent, 
How  he  borrow'd  large  sums  at  two  hundred  per  cent. ; 

How  they  follow'd — and  then, 

The  once  civilest  of  men, 

Messrs.  Howard  and  G-ibbs,  made  him  bitterly  rue  it  he 
'd  ever  raised  money  by  way  of  annuity ; 
And,  his  mortgages  being  about  to  foreclose, 
How  he  jumped  into  the  river  to  finish  his  woes ! 

Lurline  was  affected,  and  own'd,  with  a  tear, 
That  a  story  so  mournful  had  ne'er  met  her  ear : 

Rupert,  hearing  her  sigh, 

Look'd  uncommonly  sly, 
And  said,  with  some  emphasis,  "  All  1  miss,  had  I 

A  few  pounds  of  those  metals 

You  waste  here  on  kettles, 

Then,  Lord  once  again 

Of  my  spacious  domain, 
A  free  Count  of  the  Empire  once  more  I  might  reign, 


NARRATIVE.  15] 

With  Lurline  at  my  side, 

My  adorable  bride 

(Foi  the  parson  should  come,  and  the  knot  should  be  tied) ; 
No  couple  so  happy  on  earth  should  be  seen 
As  Sir  Rupert  the  brave  and  his  charming  Lurline ; 
Not  that  money's  my  object — No,  hang  it  I  I  scorn  it — 
And  as  for  my  rank — but  that  you  'd  so  adorn  it — 

I  'd  abandon  it  all 

To  remain  your  true  thrall, 

And,  instead  of  '  the  Gfreat,'  be  call'd  'Rupert  the  Small;" 
— To  gain  but  your  smiles,  were  I  Sardanapalus, 
I  'd  descend  from  my  throne,  and  be  boots  at  an  alehouse." 

Lurline  hung  her  head 

Turn'd  pale,  and  then  red, 
Growing  faint  at  this  sudden  proposal  to  wed, 
As  though  his  abruptness,  in  "  popping  the  question" 
So  soon  after  dinner,  disturb'd  her  digestion. 

Then,  averting  her  eye, 

With  a  lover-like  sigh, 

"  You  are  welcome,"  she  murmur'd  in  tones  most  bewitching, 
"  To  every  utensil  I  have  in  my  kitchen  I" 

Upstarted  the  Knight, 

Half  mad  with  delight^ 

Round  her  finely-form'd  waist 

He  immediately  placed 

One  arm,  which  the  lady  most  closely  embraced, 
Of  her  lily-white  fingers  the  other  made  capture, 
And  he  press'd  his  adored  to  his  bosom  with  rapture. 
"  And,  oh !"  he  exclaim'd,  "  let  them  go  catch  my  skiff,  I 
'11  be  home  in  a  twinkling  and  back  in  a  jiffy, 
Nor  one  moment  procrastinate  longer  my  journey 
Than  to  put  up  the  bans  and  kick  out  the  attorney." 

One  kiss  to  her  lip,  and  one  squeeze  to  her  hand 
And  Sir  Rupert  already  was  half-way  to  land, 

For  a  sour-visaged  Triton, 

With  features  would  frighten 

Old  Nick,  caught  him  up  in  one  hand,  though  no  light  one, 
Sprang  up  through  the  waves,  popp'd  him  into  his  funny, 
Which  some  others  already  had  half-fill'd  with  money; 


152  NARRATIVE. 

In  fact,  't  was  so  heavily  laden  with  ore 
And  pearls,  't  was  a  mercy  he  got  it  to  shore ; 

But  Sir  Rupert  was  strong, 

And  while  pulling  along, 
Still  he  heard,  faintly  sounding,  the  water-nymphs'  song. 


LAY    OF    THE    NAIADS. 

"  Away !  away !  to  the  mountain's  brow, 

Where  the  castle  is  darkly  frowning ; 
And  the  vassals,  all  in  goodly  row, 

Weep  for  their  lord  a-drowning ! 
Away !  away !  to  the  steward's  room, 

Where  law  with  its  wig  and  robe  is ; 
Throw  us  out  John  Doe  and  Richard  Roe, 

And  sweetly  we'll  tickle  their  tobies !" 

The  unearthly  voices  scarce  had  ceased  their  yelling, 
When  Rupert  reach' d  his  old  baronial  dwelling. 

What  rejoicing  was  there  ! 

How  the  vassals  did  stare  I 
The  old  housekeeper  put  a  clean  shirt  down  to  air, 

For  she  saw  by  her  lamp 

That  her  master's  was  damp, 
And  she  fear'd  he  'd  catch  cold,  and  lumbago,  and  cramp ; 

But,  scorning  what  she  did, 

The  Knight  never  heeded 
Wet  jacket,  or  trousers,  or  thought  of  repining, 
Since  their  pockets  had  got  such  a  delicate  lining. 

But,  oh !  what  dismay 

Fill'd  the  tribe  of  Ca  Sa, 

When  they  found  he  'd  the  cash,  and  intended  to  pay ! 
Away  went  "cognovits"  "bills,"  "bonds,"  and  "escheats," 
Rupert  cleared  off  old  scores,  and  took  proper  receipts. 

Now  no  more  he  sends  out, 

For  pots  of  brown  stout, 

Or  schnapps,  but  resolves  to  do  henceforth  without, 
Abjure  from  this  hour  all  excess  and  ebriety, 
Enroll  himself  one  of  a  Temp' ranee  Society, 


NAKRATIVE.  153 

All  riot  eschew, 

Begin  life  anew, 

And  new-cusluon  and  hassock  the  family  pew ! 
Nay,  to  strengthen  him  more  in  this  new  mode  of  life 
He  boldly  determined  to  take  him  a  wife. 

Now,  many  would  think  that  the  Knight,  from  a  nice  sense 
Of  honor,  should  put  Lurhne's  name  in  the  license, 
And  that,  for  a  man  of  his  breeding  and  quality, 

To  break  faith  and  troth, 

Confirm' d  by  an  oath, 
Is  not  quite  consistent  with  rigid  morality  ; 
But  whether  the  nymph  was  forgot,  or  he  thought  her 
From  her  essence  scarce  wife,  but  at  best  wife-and- water, 

And  declined  as  unsuited, 

A  bride  so  diluted — 

Be  this  as  it  may, 

He,  I  'm  sorry  to  say 

(For,  all  things  consider'd,  I  own  't  was  a  rum  thing), 
Made  proposals  in  form  to  Miss  Una  Von — something 
(Her  name  has  escaped  me),  sole  heiress,  and  niece 
To  a  highly  respectable  Justice  of  Peace. 


"  Thrice  happy 's  the  wooing 

That 's  not  long  a-doing  !" 

So  much  time  is  saved  in  the  billing  and  cooing — 
The  ring  is  now  bought,  the  white  favors,  and  gloves, 
And  all  the  et  cetera  which  crown  people's  loves ; 
A  magnificent  bride-cake  comes  home  from  the  baker, 
And  lastly  appears,  from  the  German  Long  Acre, 
That  shaft  which  the  sharpest  in  all  Cupid's  quiver  is, 
A  plumb-color 'd  coach,  and  rich  Pompadour  liveries. 

'T  was  a  comely  sight 

To  behold  the  Knight, 

With  his  beautiful  bride,  dress'd  all  in  white, 
And  the  bridemaids  fair  with  their  long  lace  vails, 
As  they  all  walk'd  up  to  the  altar  rails, 
While  nice  little  boys,  the  incense  dispensers, 
March' d  in  front  with  white  surplices,  bands,  and  gilt  censers. 


154  NABUATIVE. 

With  a  gracious  air,  and  a  smiling  look, 

Mess  John  had  open'd  his  awful  book, 

And  had  read  so  far  as  to  ask  if  to  wed  he  meant? 

And  if  "he  knew  any  just  cause  or  impediment?" 

When  from  base  to  turret  the  castle  shook ! ! ! 

Then  came  a  sound  of  a  mighty  rain 

Dashing  against  each  storied  pane, 

The  wind  blew  loud, 

And  coal-black  cloud 

O'ershadow'd  the  church,  and  the  party,  and  crowd ; 
How  it  could  happen  they  could  not  divine, 
The  morning  had  been  so  remarkably  fine ! 


Still  the  darkness  increased,  till  it  reach'd  such  a  pass 
That  the  sextoness  hasten' d  to  turn  on  the  gas ; 

But  harder  it  pour'd, 

And  the  thunder  roar'd, 

As  if  heaven  and  earth  were  coming  together ; 
None  ever  had  witness'd  such  terrible  weather. 

Now  louder  it  crash'd, 

And  the  lightning  flash' d, 

Exciting  the  fears 

Of  the  sweet  little  dears 

In  the  vails,  as  it  danced  on  the  brass  chandeliers  ; 
The  parson  ran  off,  though  a  stout-hearted  Saxon, 
When  he  found  that  a  flash  had  set  fire  to  his  caxon. 


Though  all  the  rest  trembled,  as  might  be  expected, 
Sir  Rupert  was  perfectly  cool  and  collected, 

And  endeavor' d  to  cheer 

His  bride,  in  her  ear 

Whisp'ring  tenderly,  "  Pray  don't  be  frighten'd,  my  dear 
Should  it  even  set  fire  to  the  castle,  and  burn  it,  you  're 
Amply  insured,  both  for  buildings  and  furniture." 

But  now,  from  without, 

A  trustworthy  scout 

Rush'd  hurriedly  in, 

Wet  through  to  the  skin, 
Informing  his  master  "  the  river  was  rising, 
And  flooding  the  grounds  in  a  way  quite  surprising." 


NARRATIVE.  155 

He  'd  no  time  to  say  more, 

For  already  the  roar 

Of  the  waters  was  heard  as  they  reach'd  the  church-door, 
While,  high  on  the  first  wave  that  roll'd  in,  was  seen, 
Riding  proudly,  the  form  of  the  angry  Lurline ; 
And  all  might  observe,  by  her  glance  fierce  and  stormy, 
She  was  stung  by  the  spretce  injuria  formce. 

What  she  said  to  the  Knight,  what  she  said  to  the  bride, 
What  she  said  to  the  ladies  who  stood  by  her  side, 
What  she  said  to  the  nice  little  boys  in  white  clothes, 
Oh,  nobody  mentions — for  nobody  knows ; 
For  the  roof  tumbled  in,  and  the  walls  tumbled  out, 
And  the  folks  tumbled  down,  all  confusion  and  rout, 

The  rain  kept  on  pouring, 

The  flood  kept  on  roaring, 
The  billows  and  water-nymphs  roll'd  more  and  more  in  ; 

Ere  the  close  of  the  day 

All  was  clean  wash'd  away — 

One  only  survived  who  could  hand  down  tho  news, 
A  little  old  woman  that  open'd  the  pews ; 

She  was  borne  off,  but  stuck, 

By  the  greatest  good  luck, 

In  an  oak-tree,  and  there  she  hung,  crying  and  screaming, 
And  saw  all  the  rest  swallow'd  up  the  wild  stream  in ; 

In  vain,  all  the  week, 

Did  the  fishermen  seek 
For  the  bodies,  and  poke  in  each  cranny  and  creek ; 

In  vain  was  their  search 

After  aught  in  the  church, 
They  caught  nothing  but  weeds,  and  perhaps  a  few  perch. 

The  Humane  Society 

Tried  a  variety 

Of  methods,  and  brought  down,  to  drag  for  the  wreck,  tackles', 
But  they  only  fished  up  the  clerk's  tortoise-shell  spectacles. 

MORAL. 

This  tale  has  a  moral.     Ye  youths,  oh,  beware 
Of  liquor,  and  how  you  run  after  the  fair ! 
Shun  playing  at  shorts — avoid  quarrels  and  jars — 
And  don't  take  to  smoking  those  nasty  cigars ! 


150  NARRATIVE. 

— Let  no  run  of  bad-luck,  or  despair  for  some  Jewess-eyed 

Damsel,  induce  you  to  contemplate  suicide  ! 

Don't  sit  up  much  later  than  ten  or  eleven ! — 

Be  up  in  the  morning  by  half  after  seven ! 

Keep  from  flirting — nor  risk,  warn'd  by  Rupert's  miscarriage, 

An  action  for  breach  of  a  promise  of  marriage ; — 

Don't  fancy  odd  fishes ! 

Don't  prig  silver  dishes! 

And  to  sum  up  the  whole,  in  the  shortest  phrase  I  know, 
BEWARE  OF  THE  RHINE,  AND  TAKE  CARE  OF  THE  RHINO  ! 


LOOK   AT    THE    CLOCK. 

R.  HARRIS   BARHAM. 

"  LOOK  at  the  Clock  1"  quoth  Winifred  Pryce, 

As  she  opened  the  door  to  her  husband's  knock. 
Then  paused  to  give  him  a  piece  of  advice, 
"  You  nasty  Warmint,  look  at  the  Clock ! 

Is  this  the  way,  you 

Wretch,  every  day  you 
Treat  her  who  vow'd  to  love  and  obey  you  ? — 

Out  all  night ! 

Me  in  a  fright ! 

Staggering  home  as  it's  just  getting  light! 
You  intoxified  brute ! — you  insensible  block ! — 
Look  at  the  Clock  !— Do !— Look  at  the  Clock  ! 


Winifred  Pryce  was  tidy  and  clean, 
Her  gown  was  a  flower'd  one,  her  petticoat  green, 
Her  buckles  were  bright  as  her  milking-cans, 
Her  hat  was  a  beaver,  and  made  like  a  man's  ; 
Her  little  red  eyes  were  deep  set  in  their  socket-holes, 
Tier  gown-tail  was  turn'd  up,  and  tuck'd  through  the  pocket- 
holes  ; 

A  face  like  a  ferret 

Betoken'd  her  spirit : 

To  conclude,  Mrs.  Pryce  was  not  over  young, 
Had  very  short  legs,  and  a  very  long  tongue. 


NARRATIVE.  157 

Now  David  Pryce 

Had  one  darling  vice ; 
Remarkably  partial  to  any  thing  nice, 
Nought  that  was  good  to  him  came  amiss, 
Whether  to  eat,  or  to  drink  or  to  kiss ! 

Especially  ale — 

If  it  was  not  too  stale 
I  really  believe  he  'd  have  emptied  a  pail ; 

Not  that  in  Wales 

They  talk  of  their  Ales : 

To  pronounce  the  word  they  make  use  of  might  trouble  you, 
Being  spelt  with  a  C,  two  R's,  and  a  W. 


That  particular  day, 

As  I  've  heard  people  say, 
Mr.  David  Pryce  had  been  soaking  his  clay, 
And  amusing  himself  with  his  pipe  and  cheroots, 
The  whole  afternoon  at  the  Goat-in-Boots, 

With  a  couple  more  soakers, 

Thoroughbred  smokers, 
Both,  like  himself,  prime  singers  and  jokers ; 
And,  long  after  day  had  drawn  to  a  close, 
And  the  rest  of  the  world  was  wrapp'd  in  repose, 
They  were  roaring  out  "  Shenkin !"  and  "  Ar  hydd  y  nos ;" 
While  David  himself,  to  a  Sassenach  tune, 
Sang,  "  WVve  drunk  down  the  Sun,  boys!  let's  drink  down 
the  Moon ! 

What  have  we  with  day  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  Winifred  Pryce,  't  was  made  for  you  1" — 
At  length,  when  they  could  n't  well  drink  any  more, 
Old  "  Goat-in-Boots"  showed  them  the  door: 

And  then  came  that  knock, 
.  And  the  sensible  shock 

David  felt  when  his  wife  cried,,,"  Look  at  the  Clock !" 
For  the  hands  stood  as  crooked  as  crooked  might  be, 
The  long  at  the  Twelve,  and  the  short  at  the  Three  1 

That  self-same  clock  had  long  been  a  bone 
Of  contention  between  this  Darby  and  Joan  ; 
And  often,  among  their  pother  and  rout, 
When  this  otherwise  amiable  couple  fell  out, 


158  NARRATIVE. 

Fryce  would  drop  a  cool  hint,. 

With  an  ominous  squint 
At  its  case,  of  an  "  Uncle"  of  his,  who  'd  a  "  Spout." 

That  horrid  word  "  Spout" 

No  sooner  came  out 
Than  Winifred  Pryce  would  turn  her  about, 

And  with  scorn  on  her  lip, 

And  a  hand  on  each  hip, 
"  Spout"  herself  till  her  nose  grew  red  at  the  tip, 

"  You  thundering  Willin, 

I  know  you  'd  be  killing 
Your  wife, — ay,  a  dozen  of  wives, — for  a  shilling ! 

You  may  do  what  you  please, 

You  may  sell  my  chemise 

(Mrs.  P.  was  too  well-bred  to  mention  her  stock), 
But  I  never  will  part  with  my  Grandmother's  Clock  !' 

Mrs.  Pryce's  tongue  ran  long  and  ran  fast, 

But  patience  is  apt  to  wear  out  at  last, 

And  David  Pryce  in  temper  was  quick, 

So  he  stretch'd  out  his  hand,  and  caught  hold  of  a  stick  ; 

Perhaps  in  its  use  he  might  mean  to  be  lenient, 

But  walking  just  then  was  n't  very  convenient, 

So  he  threw  it,  instead, 

Direct  at  her  head ; 

Itknock'doffherhat; 

Down  she  fell  flat ; 

Her  case,  perhaps,  was  not  much  mended  by  that : 
But  whatever  it  was, — whether  rage  and  pain 
Produced  apoplexy,  or  burst  a  vein, 
Or  her  tumble  induced  a  concussion  of  brain, 
I  can't  say  for  certain, — but  this  I  can, 
When  sober'd  by  fright,  to  assist  her  he  ran, 
Mrs.  Winifred  Pryce  was  dead  as  Queen  Anne  I 

The  fatal  catastrophe 

Named  in  my  last  strophe 

As  adding  to  grim  Death's  exploits  such  a  vast  trophy, 
Made  a  great  noise ;  and  the  shocking  fatality, 
Ran  over,  like  wild-fire,  the  whole  Principality. 
And  then  came  Mr.  Ap  Thomas,  the  Coroner, 
With  his  jury  to  sit,  some  dozen  or  more,  on  her. 


NARRATIVE.  150 

Mr.  Piyce  to  commence 

His  "  ingenious  defense," 
Made  a  "powerful  appeal"  to  the  jury's  "good  sense," 

"  The  world  he  must  defy  . 

Ever  to  justify- 
Any  presumption  of  'Mahce  Prepense;'  " — 

The  unlucky  lick 

From  the  end  of  his  stick 
He  "  deplored" — he  was  "  apt  to  be  rather  too  quick ;" — 

But,  really,  her  prating 

Was  so  aggravating : 

Some  trifling  correction  was  just  what  he  meant ; — all 
The  rest,  he  assured  them,  was  "  quite  accidental !" 

Then  he  calls  Mr.  Jones, 

Who  depones  to  her  tones, 

And  her  gestures  and  hints  about  "  breaking  his  bones." 
While  Mr.  Ap  Morgan,  and  Mr.  Ap  Rhys 

Declared  the  deceased 

Had  styled  him  "  a  Beast," 

And  swear  they  had  witness' d,  with  grief  and  surprise, 
The  allusion  she  made  to  his  limbs  and  his  eyes. 

The  jury,  in  fine,  having  sat  on  the  body 

The  whole  day,  discussing  the  case,  and  gin-toddy, 

Return'd  about  half-past  eleven  at  night 

The  Mowing  verdict,  "  We  find,  Sarve  her  right  /" 

Mr.  Pryce,  Mrs.  Winifred  Pryce  being  dead, 
Felt  lonely,  and  moped ;  and  one  evening  he  said 
He  would  marry  Miss  Davis  at  once  in  her  stead. 

Not  far  from  his  dwelling, 

From  the  vale  proudly  swelling, 

Rose  a  mountain ;  it 's  name  you  '11  excuse  me  from  telling, 
For  the  vowels  made  use  of  in  Welsh  are  so  few 
That  the  A  and  the  E,  the  I,  0,  and  the  U, 
Have  really  but  little  or  nothing  to  do  ; 
And  the  duty,  of  course,  falls  the  heavier  by  far, 
On  the  L,  and  the  H,  and  the  N,  and  the  R, 

Its  first  syllable  "  PEN," 

Is  pronounceable ; — then 
Come  two  L  L's,  and  two  II  H's,  two  F  F's,  and  an  N ; 


160  NARRATIVE. 

About  half  a  score  R's  and  some  Ws  follow, 
Beating  all  my  best  efforts  at  euphony  hollow : 
But  we  shan't  have  to  mention  it  often,  so  when 
We  do,  with  your  leave,  we  '11  curtail  it  to  "  PEN." 


Well — the  moon  shone  bright 

Upon  "  PEN"  that  night, 
When  Pryce,  being  quit  of  his  fuss  and  his  fright, 

Was  scaling  its  side 

With  that  sort  of  stride 
A  man  puts  out  when  walking  in  search  of  a  bride ; 

Mounting  higher  and  higher, 

He  begun  to  perspire, 
Till,  finding  his  legs  were  beginning  to  tire, 

And  feeling  opprest 

By  a  pain  in  his  chest, 

He  paus'd,  and  turn'd  round  to  take  breath,  and  to  rest; 
A  walk  all  up  hill  is  apt,  we  know, 
To  make  one,  however  robust,  puff  and  blow, 
So  he  stopp'd,  and  look'd  down  on  the  valley  below. 

O'er  fell,  and  o'er  fen, 

Over  mountain  and  glen, 

All  bright  in  the  moonshine,  his  eye  roved,  and  then 
All  the  Patriot  rose  in  his  soul,  and  he  thought 
Upon  Wales,  and  her  glories,  and  all  he  'd  been  taught 

Of  her  Heroes  of  old, 

So  brave  and  so  bold, — 
Of  her  Bards  with  long  beards,  and  harps  mounted  in  gold  ; 

Of  King  Edward  the  First', 

Of  memory  accurst ; 
And  the  scandalous  manner  in  which  he  behaved, 

Killing  Poets  by  dozens, 

With  their  uncles  and  cousins, 
Of  whom  not  one  in  fifty  had  ever  been  shaved — 
Of  the  Court  Ball,  at  which,  by  a  lucky  mishap, 
Owen  Tudor  fell  into  Queen  Katherine's  lap ; 

And  how  Mr.  Tudor, 

Successfully  woo'd  her, 

Till  the  Dowager  put  on  a  new  wedding  ring, 
And  so  made  him  Father-in  law  to  the  King. 


NARRATIVE.  161 

He  thought  upon  Arthur,  and  Merlin  of  yore, 

On  Gryffith  ap  Conan,  and  Owen  Glendour ; 

On  Pendragon,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many  more. 

He  thought  of  all  this,  as  he  gazed,  in  a  trice, 

On  all  things,  in  short,  but  the  late  Mrs.  Pryce  ; 

When  a  lumbering  noise  from  behind  made  him  start, 

And  sent  the  blood  back  in  full  tide  to  his  heart, 

Which  went  pit-a-pat 

As  he  cried  out  "  What 's  that  ?" — 

That  very  queer  sound  ? — 

Does  it  come  from  the  ground  ? 
Or  the  air, — from  above, — -or  below, — or  around  ? — 

It  is  not  like  Talking, 

It  is  not  like  Walking, 
It 's  not  like  the  clattering  of  pot  or  of  pan, 
Or  the  tramp  of  a  horse, — or  the  tread  of  a  man, — 
Or  the  hum  of  a  crowd, — or  the  shouting  of  boys, — 
It 's  really  a  deuced  odd  sort  of  a  noise ! 
Not  unlike  a  cart's, — but  that  can't  be ; — for  when 
Could  "  all  the  King's  horses,  and  all  the  King's  men," 
With  Old  Nick  for  a  wagoner,  drive  one  up  "  PEN  ?" 

Pryce,  usually  brimful  of  valor  when  drunk, 

Now  experienced  what  school-boys  denominate  "  funk. ' 

In  vain  he  look'd  back 

On  the  whole  of  the  track 

He  had  traversed  ;  a  thick  cloud,  uncommonly  black, 
At  this  moment  obscured  the  broad  disc  of  the  moon, 
And  did  not  seem  likely  to  pass  away  soon ; 

While  clearer  and  clearer, 

'T  was  plain  to  the  hearer, 

Be  the  noise  what  it  might,  it  drew  nearer  and  nearer, 
And  sounded,  as  Pryce  to  this  moment  declares, 
Very  much  "  like  a  coffin  a-walking  up  stairs." 

Mr.  Pryce  had  begun 

To  "  make  up"  for  a  run, 
As  in  such  a  companion  he  saw  no  great  fun, 

When  a  single  bright  ray 

Shone  out  on  the  way 

He  had  passed,  and  he  saw,  with  no  little  dismay, 
Coming  after  him,  bounding  o'er  crag  and  o'er  rock, 
The  deceased  Mrs.  Winifred's  "  Grandmother's  Clock  !  I" 


162  NARRATIVE. 

'T  was  so ! — it  had  certainly  moved  from  its  place, 
And  come,  lumbering  on  thus,  to  hold  him  in  chase ; 
'T  was  the  very  same  Head,  and  the  very  same  Case, 
And  nothing  was  altered  at  all — but  the  Face ! 
In  that  he  perceived,  with  no  little  surprise, 
The  two  little  winder-holes  turn'd  into  eyes 

Blazing  with  ire, 

Like  two  coals  of  fire ; 

And  the  a  Name  of  the  Maker"  was  changed  to  a  Lip, 
And  the  Hands  to  a  Nose  with  a  very  red  tip. 
No ! — he  could  not  mistake  it, — 't  was  SHE  to  the  life  I 
The  identical  face  of  his  poor  defunct  Wife ! 

One  glance  was  enough 

Completely  "  Quant,  svff" 

As  the  doctors  write  down  when  they  send  you  their  "  stuff,"- 
Like  a  Weather-cock  whirled  by  a  vehement  puff, 

David  turned  himself  round ; 

Ten  feet  of  ground 
He  clear'd,  in  his  start,  at  the  very  first  bound  ! 

I  've  seen  people  run  at  West  End  Fair  for  cheeses — 

I  've  seen  Ladies  run  at  Bow  Fair  for  chemises — 

At  Greenwich  Fair  twenty  men  run  for  a  hat, 

And  one  from  a  Bailiff  much  faster  than  that — 

At  foot-ball  I  've  seen  lads  run  after  the  bladder — 

I  've  seen  Irish  Bricklayers  run  up  a  ladder — 

I  've  seen  little  boys  run  away  from  a  cane — 

And  I  've  seen  (that  is,  read  of)  good  running  in  Spain ; 

But  I  never  did  read 

Of,  or  witness  such  speed 
As  David  exerted  that  evening. — Indeed 
All  I  have  ever  heard  of  boys,  women,  or  men, 
Falls  far  short  of  Pryce,  as  he  ran  over  "  PEN  !" 

He  reaches  its  brow, — 

He  has  past  it, — and  now 

Having  once  gained  the  summit,  and  managed  to  cross  it,  he 
Rolls  down  the  side  with  uncommon  velocity ; 

But,  run  as  he  will, 

Or  roll  down  the  hill, 
That  bugbear  behind  him  is  after  him  still ! 


NARRATIVE.  163 

And  close  at  his  heels,  not  at  all  to  his  liking, 
The  terrible  clock  keeps  on  ticking  and  striking, 

Till,  exhausted  and  sore, 

He  can't  run  any  more, 
But  falls  as  he  reaches  Miss  Davis's  door, 
And  screams  when  they  rush  out,  alafm'd  at  his  knock, 
"  Oh !  Look  at  the  Clock !— Do  !— Look  at  the  Clock !  1" 

Miss  Davis  look'd  up,  Miss  Davis  look'd  down, 
She  saw  nothing  there  to  alarm  her ; — a  frown 

Came  o'er  her  white  forehead, 

She  said,  "  It  was  horrid 

A  man  should  come  knocking  at  that  time  of  night, 
And  give  her  Mamma  and  herself  such  a  fright ; — 

To  squall  and  to  bawl 

About  nothing  at  all !" 
She  begg'd  "  he  'd  not  think  of  repeating  his  call ; 

His  late  wife's  disaster 

By  no  means  had  past  her," 

She  'd  "  have  him  to  know  she  was  meat  for  his  Master  1" 
Then  regardless  alike  of  his  love  and  his  woes, 
She  turn'd  on  her  heel  and  she  turn'd  up  her  nose. 

Poor  David  in  vain 

Implored  to  remain, 
He  "  dared  not,"  he  said,  "  cross  the  mountain  again." 

Why  the  fair  was  obdurate 

None  knows, — to  be  sure  it 

Was  said  she  was  setting  her  cap  at  the  Curate ; — 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  the  sole  hole 
Pryce  found  to  creep  into  that  night  was  the  Coal-hole ! 

In  that  shady  retreat 

With  nothing  to  eat 
And  with  very  bruised  limbs,  and  with  very  sore  feet, 

All  night  close  he  kept ; 

I  can't  say  he  slept ; 
But  he  sigh'd,  and  he  sobb'd,  and  he  groan'd,  and  he  wept ; 

Lamenting  his  sins, 

And  his  two  broken  shins, 
Bewailing  his  fate  with  contortions  and  grins, 
And  her  he  once  thought  a  complete  Rara  Avis, 
Consigning  to  Satan, — viz.,  cruel  Miss  Davis  I 


164  NARRATIVE. 

Mr.  David  has  since  had  a  "  serious  call," 
He  never  drinks  ale,  wine,  or  spirits,  at  all, 
And  they  say  he  is  going  to  Exeter  Hall 

To  make  a  grand  speech, 

And  to  preach,  and  to  teach 

People  that  "  they  can't  brew  their  malt  liquor  too  small  1" 
That  an  ancient  Welsh  Poet,  one  PYNDAR  AP  TUDOR, 
Was  right  in  proclaiming  "  ARISTON  MEN  UDOR  !" 

Which  means  "  The  pure  Element 

Is  for  Man's  belly  meant !" 
And  that  Qin  's  but  a  Snare  of  Old  Nick  the  deluder ! 


And  "  still  on  each  evening  when  pleasure  fills  up." 
At  the  old  Goat-in-Boots,  with  Metheglin,  each  cup, 

Mr.  Pryce,  if  he 's  there, 

Will  get  into  "  The  Chair," 
And  make  all  his  quondam  associates  stare 
By  calling  aloud  to  the  Landlady's  daughter, 
"  Patty,  bring  a  cigar,  and  a  glass  of  Spring  Water  1" 
The  dial  he  constantly  watches ;  and  when 
The  long  hand 's  at  the  "  XII.,"  and  the  short  at  the  "  X.,' 

He  gets  on  his  legs, 

Drains  his  glass  to  the  dregs, 
Takes  his  hat  and  great-coat  off  their  several  pegs, 
With  his  President's  hammer  bestows  his  last  knock, 
And  says  solemnly — a  Gentlemen  ! 

LOOK  AT  THE  CLOCK  I  !  !" 


THE    BAGMAN'S    DOG. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 
Stant  littore  Puppies  I— VIRGIU 

IT  was  a  litter,  a  litter  of  five, 

Four  are  drown'd,  and  one  left  alive, 

He  was  thought  worthy  alone  to  survive ; 

And  the  Bagman  resolved  upon  bringing  him  up, 

To  eat  of  his  bread,  and  to  drink  of  his  cup, 

He  was  such  a  dear  little  cock-tail'd  pup  I 


NARRATIVE.  165 

The  Bagman  taught  him  many  a  trick ; 

He  would  carry,  and  fetch,  and  run  after  a  stick, 

He  could  well  understand 

The  word  of  command, 

And  appear  to  doze 

With  a  crust  on  his  nose 

Till  the  Bagman  permissively  waved  his  hand : 
Then  to  throw  up  and  catch  it  he  never  would  fail, 
As  he  sat  up  on  end,  on  his  little  cock-tail. 
Never  was  puppy  so  bien  instruit, 
Or  possess'd  of  such  natural  talent  as  he  ; 

And  as  he  grew  older, 

Every  beholder 
Agreed  he  grew  handsomer,  sleeker,  and  bolder. 

Time,  however  his  wheels  we  may  clog, 

Wends  steadily  still  with  onward  jog, 

And  the  cock-tail'd  puppy 's  a  curly-tail'd  dog ! 

When,  just  at  the  time 

He  was  reaching  his  prime, 
And  all  thought  he  'd  be  turning  out  something  sublime, 

One  unlucky  day, 

How  no  one  could  say, 
Whether  soft  liaison  induced  him  to  stray, 
Or  some  kidnapping  vagabond  coaxed  him  away, 

He  was  lost  to  the  view, 

Like  the  morning  dew ; — 

He  had  been,  and  was  not — that 's  all  that  they  knew 
And  the  Bagman  storm'd,  and  the  Bagman  swore 
As  never  a  Bagman  had  sworn  before ;  • 
But  storming  or  swearing  but  little  avails 
To  recover  lost  dogs  with  great  curly  tails. 

In  a  large  paved  court,  close  by  Billiter  Square, 
Stands  a  mansion,  old,  but  in  thorough  repair, 
The  only  thing  strange,  from  the  general  air 
Of  its  size  and  appearance,  is  how  it  got  there ; 
In  front  is  a  short  semicircular  stair 

Of  stone  steps — some  half  score — 

Then  you  reach  the  ground  floor, 
With  a  shell-pattern' d  architrave  over  the  door. 


166  NARRATIVE. 

It  is  spacious,  and  seems  to  be  built  on  the  plan 
Of  a  Gentleman's  house  in  the  time  of  Queen  Anne ; 

Which  is  odd,  for,  although 

As  we  very  well  know, 

Under  Tudors  and  Stuarts  the  City  could  show 
Many  Noblemen's  seats  above  Bridge  and  below, 
Yet  that  fashion  soon  after  induced  them  to  go 
From  St.  Michael  Cornhill,  and  St.  Mary-le-Bow, 
To  St.  James,  and  St.  G-eorge,  and  St.  Anne  in  Soho.- 
Be  this  as  it  may — at  the  date  I  assign 
To  my  tale — that 's  about  Seventeen  Sixty-Nine — 
This  mansion,  now  rather  upon  the  decline, 
Had  less  dignified  owners — belonging,  in  fine, 
To  Turner,  Dry,  Weipersyde,  Rogers,  and  Pyne — 
A  respectable  House  in  the  Manchester  line. 


There  were  a  score 

Of  Bagmen,  and  more, 
Who  had  travel'd  full  oft  for  the  firm  before ; 
But  just  at  this  period  they  wanted  to  send 
Some  person  on  whom  they  could  safely  depend — 
A  trust- worthy  body,  half  agent,  half  friend — 
On  some  mercantile  matter,  as  far  as  Ostend  ; 
And  the  person  they  pi  ten' d  on  was  Anthony  Blogg 
A  grave,  steady  man,  not  addicted  to  grog — 
The  Bagman,  in  short,  who  had  lost  the  great  dog. 

****** 
"The  Sea!  the  Sea!  the  open  Seal- 
That  is  the  place  where  we  all  wish  to  be, 
Rolling  about  on  it  merrily  !" 

So  all  sing  and  say 

By  night  and  by  day, 

In  the  boudoir,  the  street,  at  the  concert,  and  play, 
In  a  sort  of  coxcombical  roundelay ; — 
You  may  roam  through  the  City,  transversely  or  straight, 
From  Whitechapel  turnpike  to  Cumberland  gate, 
And  every  young  Lady  who  thrums  a  guitar, 
Ev'ry  mustached  Shopman  who  smokes  a  cigar, 

With  affected  devotion 

Promulgates  his  notion 
Of  being  a  "  Rover"  and  "  Child  of  the  Ocean" — 


NAKRATIVE.  167 

Whate'er  their  age,  sex,  or  condition  may  be, 
They  all  of  them  long  for  the  "  Wide,  Wide  Sea !" 

But,  however  they  dote, 

Only  set  them  afloat 
In  any  craft  bigger  at  all  than  a  boat, 

Take  them  down  to  the  Nore, 

And  you  '11  see  that,  before 

The  "  Wessel"  they  "  Woyage"  in  has  made  half  her  way 
Between  Shell-Ness  Point  and  the  pier  at  Herne  Bay, 
Let  the  wind  meet  the  tide  in  the  slightest  degree, 
They  '11  be  all  of  them  heartily  sick  of  "  the  Sea !" 
****** 

I  Ve  stood  in  Margate,  on  a  bridge  of  size 

Inferior  far  to  that  described  by  Byron, 
Where  "  palaces  and  pris'ns  on  each  hand  rise — " 

— That  too 's  a  stone  one,  this  is  made  of  iron — 

And  little  donkey-boys  your  steps  environ, 
Each  proffering  for  your  choice  his  tiny  hack, 

Vaunting  its  excellence ;  and,  should  you  hire  one, 
For  sixpence,  will  he  urge,  with  frequent  thwack, 
The  much-enduring  beast  to  Buenos  Ayres — and  back. 

And  there,  on  many  a  raw  and  gusty  day, 

I  Ve  stood,  and  turn'd  my  gaze  upon  the  pier, 
And  seen  the  crews,  that  did  embark  so  gay 

That  self-same  morn,  now  disembark  so  queer ; 

Then  to  myself  I  Ve  sigh'd  and  said,  "  Oh  dear ! 
Who  would  believe  yon  sickly-looking  man 's  a 

London  Jack  Tar — a  Cheapside  Buccaneer ! — " 
But  hold,  my  Muse ! — for  this  terrific  stanza 
Is  all  too  stiffly  grand  for  our  Extravaganza. 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  So  now  we  '11  go  up,  up,  up, 

And  now  we  '11  go  down,  down,  down, 
And  now  we  '11  go  backward  and  forward, 

And  now  we  '11  go  roun',  roun',  roun'." — 
— I  hope  you  Ve  sufficient  discernment  to  see, 
Gentle  Reader,  that  here  the  discarding  the  d 
Is  a  fault  which  you  must  not  attribute  to  me ; 
Thus  my  Nurse  cut  it  off  when,  "with  counterfeit  glee," 
She  sung,  as  she  danced  me  about  on  her  knee, 


168  NARRATIVE. 

In  the  year  of  our  Lord  eighteen  hundred  and  three : 
All  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  the  Muse  is  now  free 
From  the  self-imposed  trammels  put  on  by  her  betters, 
And  no  longer  like  Filch,  midst  the  felons  and  debtors, 
At  Drury  Lane,  dances  her  hornpipe  in  fetters. 

Resuming  her  track, 

At  once  she  goes  back 
To  our  hero,  the  Bagman — Alas !  and  Alack ! 

Poor  Anthony  Blogg 

Is  as  sick  as  a  dog, 

Spite  of  sundry  unwonted  potations  of  grog,  • 
By  the  time  the  Dutch  packet  is  fairly  at  sea, 
With  the  sands  called  the  Goodwins  a  league  on  her  lee. 


And  now,  my  good  friends,  I  've  a  fine  opportunity 
To  obfuscate  you  all  by  sea  terms  with  impunity, 

And  talking  of  "  calking," 

And  "  quarter-deck  walking," 

"  Fore  and  aft," 

And  "  abaft," 

"  Hookers,"  "  barkeys,"  and  "  craft," 
(At  which  Mr.  Poole  has  so  wickedly  laughed), 
Of  binnacles — bilboes — the  boom  call'd  the  spanker, 
The  best  bower-cable — the  jib — and  sheet-anchor; 
Of  lower-deck  guns — and  of  broadsides  and  chases, 
Of  taffrails  and  topsails,  and  splicing  main-braces, 
And  "  Shiver  my  timbers !"  and  other  odd  phrases 
Employ'd  by  old  pilots  with  hard-featured  faces ; — 
Of  the  expletives  sea-faring  Gentlemen  use, 
The  allusions  they  make  to  the  eyes  of  their  crews; — 

How  the  Sailors,  too,  swear, 

How  they  cherish  their  hair, 

And  what  very  long  pigtails  a  great  many  wear. — 
But,  Reader,  I  scorn  it — the  fact  is,  I  fear, 
To  be  candid,  I  can't  make  these  matters  so  clear 
As  Marryat,  or  Cooper,  or  Captain  Chamier, 
Or  Sir  E.  Lytton  Bulwer,  who  brought  up  the  rear 
Of  the  "  Nauticals,"  just  at  the  end  of  the  year 
Eighteen  thirty-nine— (how  Time  flies! — Oh,  dear  I)— 
With  a  well-written  preface,  to  make  it  appear 
That  his  play,  the  "  Sea-Captain, "  's  by  no  means  small  beer; 


NARRATIVE.  169 

There ! — "  brought  up  the  rear" — you  see  there 's  a  mistake 

Which  none  of  the  authors  I  've  mentioned  would  make, 

I  ought  to  have  said,  that  he  "  sail'd  in  their  wake." — 

So  I  '11  merely  observe,  as  the  water  grew  rougher 

The  more  my  poor  hero  continued  to  suffer, 

Till  the  Sailors  themselves  cried,  in  pity,  "Poor  Buffer!" 

Still  rougher  it  grew, 
)        And  still  harder  it  blew, 
And  the  thunder  kick'd  up  such  a  hulliballoo, 
That  even  the  Skipper  began  to  look  blue ; 

While  the  crew,  who  were  few, 

Look'd  very  queer,  too, 
And  seem'd  not  to  know  what  exactly  to  do, 
And  they  who  'd  the  charge  of  them  wrote  in  the  logs, 
"  Wind  N.  E. — blows  a  hurricane — rains  cats  and  dogs." 
In  short  it  soon  grew  to  a  tempest  as  rude  as 
That  Shakspeare  describes  near  the  "  still  vex'd  Bermudas." 

When  the  winds,  in  their  sport, 

Drove  aside  from  its  port 

The  King's  ship,  with  the  whole  Neapolitan  Court, 
And  swarnp'd  it  to  give  "  the  King's  Son,  Ferdinand,"  a 
Soft  moment  or  two  with  the  Lady  Miranda, 
While  her  Pa  met  the  rest,  and  severely  rebuked  'em 
For  unhandsomely  doing  him  out  of  his  Dukedom. 
You  don't  want  me,  however,  to  paint  you  a  Storm, 
As  so  many  have  done,  and  in  colors  so  warm ; 
Lord  Byron,  for  instance,  in  manner  facetious, 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  more  gravely, — see  also  Lucretius, 
— A  writer  who  gave  me  no  trifling  vexation 
When  a  youngster  at  school,  on  Dean  Colet's  foundation. — 

Suffice  it  to  say 

That  the  whole  of  that  day, 
And  the  next,  and  the  next,  they  were  scudding  away 

Quite  out  of  their  course, 

PropelTd  by  fhe  force 

Of  those  flatulent  folks  known  in  Classical  story  as 
Aquilo,  Libs,  Notus,  Auster,  and  Boreas, 

Driven  quite  at  their  mercy 

'Twixt  Guernsey  and  Jersey, 

Till  at  length  they  came  bump  on  the  rocks  and  the  shallows, 
In  West  longtitude,  One,  fifty-seven,  near  St.  Maloes ; 

8 


170  NARRATIVE. 

There  you  will  not  be  surprised 

That  the  vessel  capsized, 

Or  that  Blogg,  who  had  made,  from  intestine  commotions, 
His  specific  gravity  less  than  the  Ocean's, 

Should  go  floating  away, 

'Mid  the  surges  and  spray, 

Like  a  cork  in  a  gutter,  which,  swoll'n  by  a  shower, 
Runs  down  Holborn-hill  about  nine  knots  an  hour. 

You  've  seen,  I  've  no  doubt,  at  Bartholomew  fair, 
Gentle  Reader, — that  is,  if  you  've  ever  been  there, — 
With  their  hands  tied  behind  them,  some  two  or  three  pair 
Of  boys  round  a  bucket  set  up  on  a  chair, 

Skipping,  and  dipping 

Eyes,  nose,  chin,  and  lip  in, 
Their  faces  and  hair  with  the  water  all  dripping, 
In  an  anxious  attempt  to  catch  hold  of  a  pippin, 
That  bobs  up  and  down  in  the  water  whenever 
They  touch  it,  as  mocking  the  fruitless  endeavor ; 
Exactly  as  Poets  say, — how,  though,  they  can't  tell  us, — 
Old  Nick's  Nonpareils  play  at  bob  with  poor  Tantalus. 

— Stay ! — I  'm  not  clear, 

But  I  'm  rather  out  here; 

'T  was  the  water  itself  that  slipp'd  from  him,  I  fear ; 
Faith,  I  can't  recollect,  and  I  have  n't  Lempriere. — 
No  matter, — poor  Blogg  went  on  ducking  and  bobbing, 
Sneezing  out  the  salt  water,  and  gulping  and  sobbing, 
Just  as  Clarence,  in  Shakspeare,  describes  all  the  qualms  he 
Experienced  while  dreaming  they  'd  drown'd  him  in  Malmsey. 

"  0  Lord,"  he  thought,  "what  pain  it  was  to  drown !" 
And  saw  great  fishes  with  great  goggling  eyes, 

Glaring  as  he  was  bobbing  up  and  down, 

And  looking  as  they  thought  him  quite  a  prize  ; 

When,  as  he  sank,  and  all  was  growing  dark, 

A  something  seized  him  with  its  jaws  I — A  shark  ? — • 

No  such  thing,  Reader : — most  opportunely  for  Blogg, 
'T  was  a  very  large,  web-footed,  curly-tail'd  Dog ! 

******* 

I  'm  not  much  of  a  trav'ler,  and  really  can't  boast 
That  I  know  a  great  deal  of  the  Brittany  coast, 


NAKKATIVE.  171 

But  I  've  often  heard  say 

That  e'en  to  this  day,  4 

The  people  of  Granville,  St.  Maloes,  and  thereabout, 
Are  a  class  that  society  does  n't  much  care  about ; 
Men  who  gain  their  subsistence  by  contraband  dealing, 
And  a  mode  of  abstraction  strict  people  call  "  stealing;" 
Notwithstanding  all  which,  they  are  civil  of  speech, 
Above  all  to  a  stranger  who  comes  within  reach ; 

And  they  were  so  to  Blogg, 

When  the  curly-tail'd  Dog 
At  last  dragged  him  out,  high  and  dry  on  the  beach. 

But  we  all  have  been  told, 

By  the  proverb  of  old, 
By  no  means  to  think  "  all  that  glitters  is  gold ;'' 

And,  in  fact,  some  advance 

That  most  people  in  France 
Join  the  manners  and  air  of  a  Maitre  de  Danse, 
To  the  morals — (as  Johnson  of  Chesterfield  said) — 
Of  an  elderly  Lady,  in  Babylon  bred, 
Much  addicted  to  flirting,  and  dressing  in  red. — 

Be  this  as  it  might, 

It  embarrass' d  Blogg  quite 
To  find  those  about  him  so  very  polite. 


A  suspicious  observer  perhaps  might  have  traced 
The  petites  soins,  tendered  with  so  much  good  taste, 
To  the  sight  of  an  old-fashion'd  pocket-book,  placed 
In  a  black  leather  belt  well  secured  round  his  waist, 
And  a  ring  set  with  diamonds,  his  finger  that  graced, 
So  brilliant,  no  one  could  have  guess'd  they  were  paste. 

The  group  on  the  shore 

Consisted  of  four ; 

You  will  wonder,  perhaps,  there  were  not  a  few  more ; 
But  the  fact  is  they  've  not,  in  that  part  of  the  nation, 
What  Malthus  would  term,  a  "  too  dense  population," 
Indeed  the  sole  sign  of  man's  habitation 

Was  merely  a  single 

Rude  hut,  in  a  dingle 

That  led  away  inland  direct  from  the  shingle, 
Its  sides  clothed  with  underwood,  gloomy  and  dark, 
Some  two  hundred  yards  above  high- water  mark ; 


172  NARRATIVE. 

And  thither  the  party, 

So  cordial  and  hearty, 
Viz.,  an  old  man,  his  wife,  two  lads,  made  a  start,  he 

The  Bagman,  proceeding, 

With  equal  good  breeding, 
To  express,  in  indifferent  French,  all  he  feels, 
The  great  curly-tail'd  Dog  keeping  close  to  his  heels. — 
They  soon  reach' d  the  hut,  which  seem'd  partly  in  ruin, 
All  the  way  bowing,  chattering,  shrugging,  Mon-Diewmg, 
Grimacing,  and  what  sailors  call  parky-vooing. 


Is  it  Paris,  or  Kitchener,  Reader,  exhorts 

You,  whenever  your  stomach 's  at  all  out  of  sorts, 

To  try,  if  you  find  richer  viands  won't  stop  hi  it, 

A  basin  of  good  mutton  broth  with  a  chop  in  it  ? 

(Such  a  basin  and  chop  as  I  once  heard  a  witty  one 

Call,  at  the  Garrick,  "  a  c — d  Committee  one," 

An  expression,  I  own,  I  do  not  think  a  pretty  one.) 

However,  it 's  clear 

That  with  sound  table  beer, 
Such  a  mess  as  I  speak  of  is  very  good  cheer  ; 

Especially  too 

When  a  person 's  wet  through, 

And  is  hungry,  and  tired,  and  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Now  just  such  a  mess  of  delicious  hot  pottage 
Was  smoking  away  when  they  enter'd  the  cottage, 
And  casting  a  truly  delicious  perfume 
Through  the  whole  of  an  ugly  fll-furnish'd  room  ; 

"  Hot,  smoking  hot," 

On  the  fire  was  a  pot 

Well  replenish'd,  but  really  I  can't  say  with  what ; 
For,  famed  as  the  French  always  are  for  ragouts, 
No  creature  can  tell  what  they  put  in  their  stews. 
Whether  bull-frogs,  old  gloves,  or  old  wigs,  or  old  shoe?? 
Notwithstanding,  when  offer' d  I  rarely  refuse, 
Any  more  than  poor  Blogg  did,  when  seeing  the  reeky 
Repast  placed  before  him,  scarce  able  to  speak,  he 
In  ecstasy  mutter'd,  "By  Jove,  Cocky-leeky  !" 

In  an  instant,  as  soon 

As  they  gave  him  a  spoon, 


NARRATIVE.  173 

Every  feeling  and  faculty  bent  on  the  gruel,  he 
No  more  blamed  Fortune  for  treating  him  cruelly, 
But  fell  tooth  and  nail  on  the  soup  and  the  bouilli. 
****** 

Meanwhile  that  old  man  standing  by, 

Subducted  his  long  coat-tails  on  high, 

With  his  back  to  the  fire,  as  if  to  dry 

A  part  of  his  dress  which  the  watery  sky 

Had  visited  rather  inclemently. — 

Blandly  he  smil'd,  but  still  he  look'd  sly, 

And  something  sinister  lurk'd  in  his  eye. 

Indeed,  had  you  seen  him  his  maritime  dress  in, 

You'd  have  own'd  his  appearance  was  not  prepossessing ; 

He  'd  a  "  dreadnought"  coat,  and  heavy  sabots, 

With  thick  wooden  soles  turn'd  up  at  the  toes, 

His  nether  man  cased  in  a  striped  quelque  chose, 

And  a  hump  on  his  back,  and  a  great  hook'd  nose, 

So  that  nine  out  of  ten  would  be  led  to  suppose 

That  the  person  before  them  was  Punch  in  plain  clothes. 

Yet  still,  as  I  told  you,  he  smiled  on  all  present, 
And  did  all  that  lay  in  his  power  to  look  pleasant. 

The  old  woman,  too, 

Made  a  mighty  ado, 

Helping  her  guest  to  a  deal  of  the  stew ; 
She  fish'd  up  the  meat,  and  she  help'd  him  to  that, 
She  help'd  him  to  lean,  and  she  help'd  him  to  fat. 
And  it  look'd  like  Hare — but  it  might  have  been  Cat 
The  little  gar^ons  too  strove  to  express 
Their  sympathy  toward  the  "  Child  of  distress  " 
With  a  great  deal  of  juvenile  French  polilesse  ; 

But  the  Bagman  bluff 

Continued  to  "  stuff' 

Of  the  fat,  and  the  lean,  and  the  tender,  and  tough, 
Till  they  thought  he  would  never  cry  "  Hold,  enough !" 
And  the  old  woman's  tones  became  far  less  agreeable, 
Sounding  like  peste  I  and  sacre  I  and  diable  ! 

I  've  seen  an  old  saw,  which  is  well  worth  repeating, 
That  says, 
" 
Eeserbctj) 


174  NARRATIVE. 


You  '11  find  it  so  printed  by  Canton  or 

And  a  very  good  proverb  it  is  to  ray  thinking. 

Blogg  thought  so  too  ;  — 

As  he  finish'  d  his  stew, 

His  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the  word  "Morbleu  /" 
Pronounced  by  the  old  woman  under  her  breath. 
Now,  not  knowing  what  she  could  mean  by  "Blue  Death!" 
He  conceiv'd  she  referr'd  to  a  delicate  brewing 
"^VMch  is  almost  synonymous,  —  namely,  "  Blue  Ruin." 
So  he  pursed  up  his  lip  to  a  smile,  and  with  glee, 
In  his  cockneyfy'd  accent,  responded  "  Oh,  Vee  /" 

Which  made  her  understand  he 

Was  asking  for  brandy  ; 

So  she  turn'd  to  the  cupboard,  and,  having  some  handy, 
Produced,  rightly  deeming  he  would  not  object  to  it, 
An  oracular  bulb  with  a  very  long  neck  to  it  ; 
In  fact  you  perceive  her  mistake  was  the  same  as  his, 
Each  of  them  "  reasoning  right  from  wrong  premises  ;"  — 
—  And  here  by  the  way 

Allow  me  to  say, 

Kind  Reader  —  you  sometimes  permit  me  to  stray  — 
'Tis  strange  the  French  prove,  when  they  take  to  aspersing, 
So  inferior  to  us  in  the  science  of  cursing  : 

Kick  a  Frenchman  down  stairs, 

How  absurdly  he  swears  ! 

And  how  odd  'tis  to  hear  him,  when  beat  to  a  jelly, 
Roar  out  hi  a  passion,  "  Blue  Death!"  and  "Blue  Belly!" 

"  To  return  to  our  sheep"  from  this  little  digression  :  — 

Blogg's  features  assumed  a  complacent  expression 

As  he  emptied  his  glass,  and  she  gave  him  a  fresh  one  ; 

Too  little  he  heeded, 

How  fast  they  succeeded. 

Perhaps  you  or  I  might  have  done,  though,  as  he  did  ; 
For  when  once  Madam  Fortune  deals  out  her  hard  raps, 

It  's  amazing  to  think 

How  one  "  cottons"  to  Drink  ! 
At  such  tinier,  of  all  things  in  nature,  perhaps, 
There  's  not  one  that  is  half  so  seducing  as  Schnaps. 

Mr.  Blogg,  beside  being  uncommonly  diy, 
Was,  like  most  other  Bagmen,  remarkably  shy, 


NARRATIVE.  175 

— "  Did  not  like  to  deny" — 

"  Felt  obliged  to  comply" 

Every  time  that  she  ask'd  him  to  "  wet  t'  other  eye ;" 
For  't  was  worthy  remark  that  she  spared  not  the  stoup, 
Though  before  she  had  seem'd  so  to  grudge  him  the  soup. 

At  length  the  fumes  rose 

To  his  brain ;  and  his  nose 
Gave  hints  of  a  strong  disposition  to  doze, 
And  a  yearning  to  seek  "  horizontal  repose." — 

His  queer-looking  host, 

Who,  firm  at  his  post, 
During  all  the  long  meal  had  continued  to  toast 

That  garment 't  were  rude  to 

Do  more  than  allude  to, 

Perceived,  from  his  breathing  and  nodding,  the  views 
Of  his  guest  weffe  directed  to  "  taking  a  snooze :" 
So  he  caught  up  a  lamp  in  his  huge  dirty  paw, 
With  (as  Blogg  used  to  tell  it)  "Mounseer,  swivvy  maw  I" 

And  "  marshal'd"  him  so 

"  The  way  he  should  go," 
Up  stairs  to  an  attic,  large,  gloomy,  and  low, 

Without  table  or  chair, 

Or  a  movable  there, 

Save  an  old-fashion'd  bedstead,  much  out  of  repair, 
That  stood  at  the  end  most  remov'd  from  the  stair. — 

With  a  grin  and  a  shrug 

The  host  points  to  the  rug, 

Just    as    much    as   to   say,    "  There !  —  I   think   you  '11   be 
snug !" 

Puts  the  light  on  the  floor, 

Walks  to  the  door, 

Makes  a  formal  Salaam,  a*nd  is  then  seen  n^  more; 
When  just  as  the  ear  lost  the  sound  of  his  tread, 
To  the  Bagman's  surprise,  and,  at  first,  to  his  dread, 
The  great  curly  tail'd  Dog  crept  from  under  the  bed ! — 


— It 's  a  very  nice  thing  when  a  man  's  in  a  fright, 
And  thinks  matters  all  wrong,  to  find  matters  all  right ; 
As,  for  instance,  when  going  home  late-ish  at  night 
Through  a  Church-yard,  and  seeing  a  thing  all  in  white, 
Which,  of  course,  one  is  led  to  consider  a  Sprite, 


176  NARRATIVE. 

To  find  that  the  Ghost 

Is  merely  a  post, 

Or  a  miller,  or  chalky-faced  donkey  at  most ; 
Or,  when  taking  a  walk  as  the  evenings  begin 
To  close,  or,  as  some  people  call  it,  "  draw  in," 
And  some  undefined  form,  "  looming  large"  through  the  haze, 
Presents  itself,  right  in  your  path,  to  your  gaze, 

Inducing  a  dread 

Of  a  knock  on  the  head, 
Or  a  sever'd  carotid,  to  find  that,  instead 
Of  one  of  those  ruffians  who  murder  and  fleece  men, 
It's  your  uncle,  or  one  of  the  "  Rural  Policemen;" — 

Then  the  blood  flows  again 

Through  artery  and  vein; 

You''re  delighted  with  what  just  before  gave  you  pain ; 
You  laugh  at  your  fears — and  your  friend  in  the  fog" 
Meets  a  welcome  as  cordial  as  Anthony  Blogg 
Now  bestow'd  on  his  friend — the  great  curly-tail'd  Dog. 

For  the  Dog  leap'd  up,  and  his  paws  found  a  place 

On  each  side  his  neck  in  a  canine  embrace, 

And  he  lick'd  Blogg's  hands,  and  he  lick'd  his  face, 

And  he  waggled  his  tail  as  much  as  to  say, 

"  Mr.  Blogg,  we  've  foregather'd  before  to-day  1" 

And  the  Bagman  saw,  as  he  now  sprang  up, 

What,  beyond  all  doubt, 

He  might  have  found  out 
Before,  had  he  not  been  so  eager  to  sup, 
'T  was  Sancho  ! — the  Dog  he  had  rear'd  from  a  pup ! — 
The  Dog  who  when  sinking  had  seized  his  hair — 
The  Dog  who  had  saved,  and  conducted  him  there — 
The  Dog  he  had  lost  out  of  Billiter  Square ! ! 

It 's  passing  sweet, 

An  absolute  treat, 

When  friends,  long  sever'd  by  distance,  meet — 
With  what  warmth  and  affection  each  other  they  greet ! 
Especially  too,  as  we  very  well  know, 
If  there  seems  any  chance  of  a  little  cadeau, 
A  "  Present  from  Brighton,"  or  "  Token"  to  show, 
In  the  shape  of  a  work-box,  ring,  bracelet,  or  so, 


N  A  R  11  A  T  I  V  E .  177 

That  our  friends  don't  forget  us,  although  they  may  go 

To  Rarnsgate,  or  Rome,  or  Fernando  Po. 

If  some  little  advantage  seems  likely  to  start, 

From  a  fifty -pound  note  to  a  two-penny  tart, 

It's  surprising  to  see  how  it  softens  the  heart, 

And  you  '11  find  those  whose  hopes  from  the  other  are  strongest, 

Use,  in  common,  endearments  the  thickest  and  longest. 

But,  it  was  not  so  here ; 

For  although  it  is  clear, 

When  abroad,  and  we  have  not  a  single  friend  near, 
E'en  a  cur  that  will  love  us  becomes  very  dear, 
And  the  balance  of  interest  'twixt  him  and  the  Dog 
Of  course  was  inclining  to  Anthony  Blogg, 

Yet  he,  first  of  all,  ceased 

To  encourage  the  beast, 

Perhaps  thinking  " Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast;" 
And  besides,  as  we  've  said,  being  sleepy  and  mellow, 
He  grew  tired  of  patting,  and  crying  "Poor  fellow!" 
So  his  smile  by  degrees  harden' d  into  a  frown, 
And  his  "That's  a  good  dog  1"  into  "  Down,  Sancho !  down  I" 

But  nothing  could  stop  his  mute  fav'rite's  caressing, 
Who,  in  fact,  seem'd  resolved  to  prevent  his  undressing, 

Using  paws,  tail,  and  head, 

As  if  he  had  said, 

"  Most  beloved  of  masters,  pray,  don't  go  to  bed  ; 
You  had  much  better  sit  up,  and  pat  me  instead !" 
Nay,  at  last,  when  determined  to  take  some  repose, 
Blogg  threw  himself-  down  on  the  outside  the  clothes, 

Spite  of  all  he  could  do, 

The  Dog  jump'd  up  too, 
And  kept  him  awake  with  his  very  cold  nose ; 

Scratching  and  whining, 

And  moaning  and  pining, 

Till  Blogg  really  believed  he  must  have  some  design  in 
Thus  breaking  his  rest ;  above  all,  when  at  length 
The  Dog  scratched  him  off  from  the  bed  by  sheer  strength. 

Extremely  annoy'd  by  the  "  tarnation  whop,"  as  it 
's  call'd  in  Kentuck,  on  his  head  and  its  opposite, 

Blogg  show'd  fight; 

When  he  saw,  by  the  light 
8* 


1*78  NARRATIVE. 

Of  the  flickering  candle,  that  had  not  yet  quite 
Burnt  down  in  the  socket,  though  not  over  bright, 
Certain  dark-color'd  stains,  as  of  blood  newly  spilt, 
Reveal'd  by  the  dog's  having  scratch'd  off  the  quilt — 
Which  hinted  a  story  of  horror  and  guilt ! — 

'T  was  "  no  mistake," — 

He  was  "wide  awake" 

In  an  instant ;  for,  when  only  decently  drunk, 
Nothing  sobers  a  man  so  completely  as  "  funk." 


And  hark ! — what 's  that  ? — 

They  have  got  into  chat 

In  the  kitchen  below — what  the  deuce  are  they  at  ?— 
There 's  the  ugly  old  Fisherman  scolding  his  wife — 
And  she  ! — by  the  Pope  !  she 's  whetting  a  knife  ! — 

At  each  twist 

Of  her  wrist, 
And  her  great  mutton  fist, 
The  edge  of  the  weapon  sounds  shriller  and  louder ! — 

The  fierce  kitchen  fire 

Had  not  made  Blogg  perspire 

Hah0  so  much,  or  a  dose  of  the  best  James's  powder. — 
It  ceases — all 's  silent ! — and  now,  I  declare 
There 's  somebody  crawls  up  that  rickety  stair. 


The  horrid  old  ruffian  comes,  cat-like,  creeping ; — 

He  opens  the  door  just  sufficient  to  peep  in, 

And  sees,  as  he  fancies,  the  Bagman  sleeping ! 

For  Blogg,  when  he  'd  once  ascertain'd  that  there  was  some 

"  Precious  mischief"  on  foot,  had  resolv'd  to  play  "  'Possum ;" — 

Down  he  went,  legs  and  head, 

Flat  on  the  bed, 

Apparently  sleeping  as  sound  as  the  dead ; 
While,  though  none  who  look'd  at  him  would  think  such  a  thing, 
Every  nerve  in  his  frame  was  braced  up  for  a  spring. 

Then,  just  as  the  villain 

Crept,  stealthily  still,  in, 

And  you  'd  not  have  insur'd  his  guest's  life  for  a  shilling, 
As  the  knife  gleam'd  on  high,  bright  and  sharp  as  a  razor, 
Blogg,  starting  upright,  "  tipped"  the  fellow  "  a  facer ;" — 


NAKKATIVE.  170 

— Down  went  man  and  weapon. — Of  all  sorts  of  blows, 
From  what  Mr.  Jackson  reports,  I  suppose 
There  are  few  that  surpass  a  flush  hit  on  the  nose. 


Now,  had  I  the  pen  of  old  Ossian  or  Homer, 

(Though  each  of  these  names  some  pronounce  a  misnomer, 

And  say  the  first  person 

Was  call'd  James  M'Pherson, 
While,  as  to  the  second,  they  stoutly  declare 
He  was  no  one  knows  who,  and  born  no  one  knows  where) 
Or  had  I  the  quill  of  Pierce  Egan,  a  writer 
Acknowledged  the  best  theoretical  fighter 

For  the  last  twenty  years, 

By  the  lively  young  Peers, 

Who,  doffing  their  coronets,  collars,  and  ermine,  treat 
Boxers  to  "  Max,"  at  the  One  Tun  in  Jermyn  Street ; 
— I  say,  could  I  borrow  these  Gentlemen's  Muses, 
More  skill'd  than  my  meek  one  in  "  fibbings"  and  bruises, 

I  'd  describe  now  to  you 

As  "  prime  a  Set-to," 

And  "  regular  turn-up,"  as  ever  you  knew ; 
Not  inferior  in  "  bottom"  to  aught  you  have  read  of 
Since  Cribb,  years  ago,  half  knock' d  Molyneux's  head  off. 
But  my  dainty  Urania  says,  "  Such  things  are  shocking  1" 

Lace  mittens  she  loves, 

Detesting  "  The  Gloves ;" 

And  turning,  with  air  most  disdainfully  mocking, 
From  Melpomene's  buskin,  adopts  the  silk  stocking. 

So,  as  far  as  I  can  see, 

I  must  leave  you  to  "  fancy" 

The  thumps,  and  the  bumps,  and  the  ups  and  the  downs, 
And  the  taps,  and  the  slaps,  and  the  raps  on  the  crowns, 
That  pass'd  'twixt  the  Husband,  Wife,  Bagman,  and  Dog, 
As  Blogg  roll'd  over  them,  and  they  roll'd  over  Blogg ; 

While  what's  called  "  Tl«>  Claret" 

Flew  over  the  garret : 

Merely  stating  the  fact, 

As  each  other  they  whack'd, 
The  Dog  his  old  master  most  gallantly  back'd ; 
Making  both  the  gallons,  who  came  running  in,  sheer  oftj 
With  "  Hippolyte's"  thumb,  and  "  Alphorww's"  left  ear  off; 


180  NARRATIVE. 

Next  making  a  stoop  on 

The  buffeting  group  on 

The  floor,  rent  in  tatters  the  old  woman's  jupon  ; 
Then  the  old  man  turn'd  up,  and  a  fresh  bite  of  Sancho's 
Tore  out  the  whole  seat  of  his  striped  Calimancoes. — 

Really,  which  way 

This  desperate  fray 

Might  have  ended  at  last,  I  'm  not  able  to  say, 
The  dog  keeping  thus  the  assassins  at  bay : 
But  a  few  fresh  arrivals  decided  the  day ; 

For  bounce  went  the  door, 

In  came  half  a  score 

Of  the  passengers,  sailors,  and  one  or  two  more 
Who  had  aided  the  party  in  gaining  the  shore ! 


It 's  a  great  many  years  ago — mine  then  were  few — 
Since  I  spent  a  short  time  in  the  old  Courageux  ; 

I  think  that  they  say 

She  had  been,  in  her  day 

A  First-rate, — but  was  then  what  they  term  a  Rasie, — 
And  they  took  me  on  board  in  the  Downs,  where  she  lay 
(Captain  Wilkinson  held  the  command,  by  the  way.) 
In  her  I  pick'd  up,  on  that  single  occasion, 
The  little  I  know  that  concerns  Navigation, 
And  obtained,  inter  alia,  some  vague  information 
Of  a  practice  which  often,  in  cases  of  robbing, 
Is  adopted  on  shipboard — I  think  it's  call'd  "  Cobbing." 
How  it 's  managed  exactly  I  really  can't  say, 
But  I  think  that  a  Boot-jack  is  brought  into  play, — 
That  is,  if  I  'm  right : — it  exceeds  my  ability 

To  tell  how  'tis  done  ; 

But  the  system  is  one 

Of  which  Sancho's  exploit  would  increase  the  facility. 
And,  from  all  I  can  learn,  I  'd  much  rather  be  robb'd 
Of  the  little  I  have  in  my  purse,  than  be  "  cobb'd ;" — 

That 's  mere  matter  of  taste : 

But  the  Frenchman  was  placed — 
I  mean  the  old  scoundrel  whose  actions  we've  traced — 
In  such  a  position,  that,  on  his  unmasking, 
His  consent  was  the  last  thing  the  men  thought  of  asking. 


NARRATIVE.  181 

The  old  woman,  too, 

Was  obliged  to  go  through, 

With  her  boys,  the  rough  discipline  used  by  the  crew, 
Who,  before  they  let  one  of  the  set  see  the  back  of  them, 
"  Cobb'd"  the  whole  party, — ay,  "  every  man  Jack  of  them." 

MORAL. 

And  now,  Gentle  Reader,  before  that  I  say 
Farewell  for  the  present,  and  wish  you  good-day, 
Attend  to  the  moral  I  draw  from  my  lay  1 — 

If  ever  you  travel,  like  Anthony  Blogg, 
Be  wary  of  strangers ! — don't  take  too  much  grog  I — 
And  don't  fall  asleep,  if  you  should,  like  a  hog ! — 
Above  all — carry  with  you  a  curly-tail'd  Dog ! 

Lastly,  don't  act  like  Blogg,  who,  I  say  it  with  blushing, 
Sold  Sancho  next  month  for  two  guineas  at  Flushing ; 
But  still  on  these  words  of  the  Bard  keep  a  fix'd  eye, 
INGRATUM  si  DIXERIS,  OMNIA  DIXTI  1  !  ! 

LEnvoye. 

I  felt  so  disgusted  with  Blogg,  from  sheer  shame  of  him, 
I  never  once  thought  to  inquire  what  became  of  him ; 
If  you  want  to  know,  Reader,  the  way,  I  opine, 

To  achieve  your  design, — 

— Mind,  it 's  no  wish  of  mine, — 
Is, — (a  penny  will  do 't) — by  addressing  a  line 
To  Turner,  Dry,  Weipersyde,  Rogers,  and  Pyne. 


DAME  FREDEGONDE. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

WHEN  folks  with  headstrong  passion  blind, 
To  play  the  fool  make  up  their  mind, 
They  're  sure  to  come  with  phrases  nice, 
And  modest  air,  for  your  advice. 
But,  as  a  truth  unfailing  make  it, 
They  ask,  but  never  mean  to  take  it. 


182  NARRATIVE. 

'Tis  not  advice  they  want,  in  fact, 
But  confirmation  in  their  act. 
Now  mark  what  did,  in  such  a  case, 
A  worthy  priest  who  knew  the  race. 

A  dame  more  buxom,  blithe  and  free, 
Than  Fredegonde  you  scarce  would  see. 
So  smart  her  dress,  so  trim  her  shape, 
Ne'er  hostess  offer'd  juice  of  grape, 
Could  for  her  trade  wish  better  sign ; 
Her  looks  gave  flavor  to  her  wine, 
And  each  guest  feels  it,  as  he  sips, 
Smack  of  the  ruby  of  her  lips. 
A  smile  for  all,  a  welcome  glad, — 
A  jovial  coaxing  way  she  had  ; 
And, — what  was  more  her  fate  than  blame. — 
A  nine  months'  widow  was  our  dame. 
But  toil  was  hard,  for  trade  was  good, 
And  gallants  sometimes  will  be  rude. 
"  And  what  can  a  lone  woman  do  ? 
The  nights  are  long  and  eerie  too. 
Now,  G-uillot  there  's  a  likely  man. 
None  better  draws  or  taps  a  can ; 
He 's  just  the  man,  I  think,  to  suit, 
If  I  could  bring  my  courage  to 't." 
With  thoughts  like  these  her  mind  is  cross'd  : 
The  dame,  they  say,  who  doubts,  is  lost. 
"  But  then  the  risk  ?     I  '11  beg  a  slice 
Of  Father  Raulin's  good  advice." 

Prankt  in  her  best,  with  looks  demure, 
She  seeks  the  priest ;  and,  to  be  sure, 
Asks  if  he  thinks  she  ought  to  wed : 
"  With  such  a  business  on  my  head, 
I  'm  worried  off  my  legs  with  care, 
And  need  some  help  to  keep  things  square. 
I  Ve  thought  of  G-uillot,  truth  to  tell ! 
He 's  steady,  knows  his  business  well 
What  do  you  think  ?"     When  thus  he  met  her 
"  Oh,  take  him,  dear,  you  can't  do  better  1" 
"  But  then  the  danger,  my  good  pastor, 
If  of  the  man  I  make  the  master. 


NARRATIVE.  183 

There  is  no  trusting  to  these  men." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  don't  have  him  then  I" 

"  But  help  I  must  have,  there 's  the  curse. 

I  may  go  further  and  fare  worse." 

"  Why,  take  him  then !"     "  But  if  he  should 

Turn  out  a  thankless  ne'er-do-good, — 

In  drink  and  riot  waste  my  all, 

And  rout  me  out  of  house  and  hall  ?" 

"  Don't  have  him,  then !     But  I  Ve  a  plan 

To  clear  your  doubts,  if  any  can. 

The  bells  a  peal  are  ringing, — hark ! 

Go  straight,  and  what  they  tell  you  mark. 

If  they  say  '  Yes  I'  wed,  and  be  blest — 

If '  No,'  why — do  as  you  tlu'nk  best." 

The  bells  rung  out  a  triple  bob  : 
Oh,  how  our  widow's  heart  did  throb, 
And  thus  she  heard  their  burden  go, 
"  Marry,  mar-marry,  mar-Gnillot !" 
Bells  were  not  then  left  to  hang  idle  : 
A  week, — and  they  rang  for  her  bridal. 
But,  woe  the  while,  they  might  as  well 
Have  rung  the  poor  dame's  parting  knell. 
The  rosy  dimples  left  her  cheek. 
She  lost  her  beauties  plump  and  sleek  ; 
For  Guillot  oftener  kick'd  than  kiss'd, 
And  back'd  his  orders  with  his  fist, 
Proving  by  deeds  as  well  as  words, 
That  servants  make  the  worst  of  lords. 

She  seeks  the  priest,  her  ire  to  wreak, 
And  speaks  as  angry  women  speak, 
With  tiger  looks,  and  bosom  swelling, 
Cursing  the  hour  she  took  his  telling. 
To  all,  his  calm  reply  was  this, — 
"  I  fear  you  've  read  the  bells  amiss. 
If  they  have  led  you  wrong  in  aught, 
Your  wish,  not  they,  inspired  the  thought. 
Just  go,  and  mark  well  what  they  say." 
Off  trudged  the  dame  upon  her  way, 
And  sure  enough  the  chime  went  so, — 
"  Don't  have  that  knave,  that  knave  Guillot  1" 


184  NARRATIVE. 

"  Too  true,"  she  cried,  "  there 's  not  a  doubt : 
What  could  my  ears  have  been  about!" 
She  had  forgot,  that,  as  fools  think, 
The  bell  is  ever  sure  to  clink. 


THE   KING   OF   BRENTFORD'S    TESTAMENT. 

W.    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

THE  noble  king  of  Brentford 

Was  old  and  very  sick ; 
He  summoned  his  physicians 

To  wait  upon  him  quick; 
They  stepped  into  their  coaches, 

And  brought  their  best  physic. 

They  crammed  their  gracious  master 

With  potion  and  with  pill ; 
They  drenched  him  and  they  bled  him : 

They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 
" Go  fetch,"  says  he,  "  my  lawyer; 

I  'd  better  make  my  will." 

The  monarch's  royal  mandate 

The  lawyer  did  obey ; 
The  thought  of  six-and-eightpence 

Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 
"  What  is't,"  says  he,  "  your  majesty 

Would  wish  of  me  to-day  ?" 

"  The  doctors  have  belabored  me 

With  potion  and  with  pill : 
My  hours  of  life  are  counted 

0  man  of  tape  and  quill ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two, 

1  want  to  make  my  will. 

"  O'er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 

I  'm  lord  and  eke  of  Kew : 
I  've  three  per  cents  and  five  per  cents ; 

My  debts  are  but  a  few ; 
And  to  inherit  after  me 

I  have  but  children  two. 


NARRATIVE.  1 8a 

"  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son, 

A  sober  prince  is  he ; 
And  from  the  day  we  breeched  him, 

Till  now  he 's  twenty-three, 
He  never  caused  disquiet 

To  his  poor  mamma  or  me. 

."  At  school  they  never  flogged  him ; 

At  college,  though  not  fast, 
Yet  his  little  go  and  great  go 

He  creditably  passed, 
And  made  his  year's  allowance 

For  eighteen  months  to  last. 

"  He  never  owed  a  shilling, 

Went  never  drunk  to  bed, 
He  has  not  two  ideas 

Within  his  honest  head ; 
In  all  respects  he  differs 

From  my  second  son,  Prince  Ned. 

"  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 

Laid  by  at  the  year's  end, 
Poor  Ned  has  ne'er  a  stiver 

That  rightly  he  may  spend, 
But  sponges  on  a  tradesman, 

Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 

"  While  Tom  his  legal  studies 

Most  soberly  pursues, 
Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 

A-dawdling  with  the  Muse ; 
While  Tom  frequents  his  banker, 

Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews. 

"  Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 

Tom  sometimes  takes  a  'bus ; 
Ah,  cruel  fate,  why  made  you 

My  children  differ  thus  ? 
Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard, 

And  Ned  a  genius  ?" 


186  NARRATIVE. 

"  You  '11  cut  him  with  a  shilling/' 
Exclaimed  the  man  of  wits  : 

"  I'll  leave  my  wealth,"  said  Brentford, 
"  Sir  Lawyer,  as  befits ; 

And  portion  both  their  fortunes 
Unto  their  several  wits." 

"  Your  grace  knows  best,"  the  lawyer  said, 
"  On  your  commands  I  wait." 

"  Be  silent,  sir,"  says  Brentford, 
"  A  plague  upon  your  prate  ! 

Come,  take  your  pen  and  paper, 
And  write  as  I  dictate." 

The  will,  as  Brentford  spoke  it, 
Was  writ,  and  signed,  and  closed ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him, 
And  turned  him  round,  and  dozed ; 

And  next  week  in  the  church-yard 
The  good  old  king  reposed. 

Tom,  dressed  in  crape  and  hatband, 
Of  mourners  was  the  chief; 

In  bitter  self-upbraidings 

Poor  Edward  showed  his  grief; 

Tom  hid  his  fat,  white  countenance 
In  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

Ned's  eyes  were  full  of  weeping, 

He  faltered  in  his  walk  ; 
Tom  never  shed  a  tear, 

But  onward  he  did  stalk, 
As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn, 

As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  the  bones  of  Brentford^ 
That  gentle  king  and  just — 

With  bell,  and  book,  and  candle, 
Were  duly  laid  in  dust, 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  says  Thomas, 
"  Let  business  be  discussed. 


NARRATIVE.  187 

"  When  late  our  sire  beloved 

Was  taken  deadly  ill, 
Sir  Lawyer,  you  attended  him, 

(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill ;) 
And,  as  you  signed  and  wrote  it, 

I  pr'ythee  read  the  will." 

The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 

And  drew  the  parchment  out ; 
And  all  the  Brentford  family 

Sat  eager  round  about :    ' 
Poor  Ned  was  somewhat  anxious, 

But  Tom  had  ne'er  a  doubt. 

"  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 

To  seek  my  last  long  home, 
Some  cares  I  had  for  Neddy, 

But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom : 
Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne'er  departed  from. 

11  Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius, 

And  thou  a  plodding  brain ; 
On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure, 

On  him  with  doubt  and  pain." 
("  You  see,  good  Ned,"  says  Thomas, 

"  What  he  thought  about  us  twain.") 

"  Though  small  was  your  allowance, 

You  saved  a  little  store ; 
And  those  who  save  a  little 

Shall  get  a  plenty  more." 
As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 

Tom's  eyes  were  running  o'er. 

"  The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 

Set  out,  at  each  his  pace ; 
The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter, 

The  tortoise  won  the  race  ; 
And  since  the  world's  beginning, 

This  ever  was  the  case. 


188  NARRATIVE. 

"  Ned's  genius,  blithe  and  singing, 
Steps  gayly  o'er  the  ground ; 

As  steadily  you  trudge  it, 
He  clears  it  with  a  bound  ; 

But  dullness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 
And  wind  that's  wondrous  sound. 

"  O'er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 
You  pass  with  plodding  feet  j 

You  heed  not  one  nor  t'other, 
But  onward  go  your  beat, 

While  genius  stops  to  loiter 
With  all  that  he  may  meet ; 

"  And  ever,  as  he  wanders, 
Will  have  a  pretext  fine 

For  sleeping  in  the  morning, 
Or  loitering  to  dine, 

Or  dozing  in  the  shade, 
Or  basking  in  the  shine. 

"  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 
Though  not  so  bright  as  those 

That  restless  round  about  him 
Your  flashing  genius  throws, 

Are  excellently  suited 
To  look  before  your  nose. 

"  Thank  heaven,  then,  for  the  blinkers 
It  placed  before  your  eyes  ; 

The  stupidest  are  weakest, 
The  witty  are  not  wise  ; 

O,  bless  your  good  stupidity, 
It  is  your  dearest  prize ! 

"  And  though  my  lands  are  wide, 

And  plenty  is  my  gold, 
Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold — 
A  brain  that 's  thick  and  heavy, 

A  heart  that's  dull  and  cold  ; 


NARRATIVE.  130 

"  Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 

Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 
Too  cool  to  yield  to  passion, 

Or  silly  tenderness. 
March  on — your  road  is  open 

To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 

"  Ned  sinneth  in  extravagance, 

And  you  in  greedy  lust." 
("  I'  faith,"  says  Ned,  "  our  father 

Is  less  polite  than  just.") 
"  In  you,  son  Tom,  I  've  confidence, 

But  Ned  I  can  not  trust. 

"  Wherefore  my  lease  and  copyholds, 

My  lands  and  tenements, 
My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards, 

My  houses  and  my  rents, 
My  Dutch  stock,  and  my  Spanish  stock, 

My  five  and  three  per  cents ; 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas — " 

("  What,  all  ?"  poor  Edward  said  ; 
"  Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them, 

And  Tom  's  a  prudent  head.") 
"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas, — 

To  you,  IN  TRUST  for  Ned." 

The  wrath  and  consternation 

What  poet  e'er  could  trace 
That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o'er  Prince  Tom  his  face , 
The  wonder  of  the  company, 

And  honest  Ned's  amaze ! 

"  'Tis  surely  some  mistake," 

Good-naturedly  cries  Ned ; 
The  lawyer  answered  gravely, 

"  'Tis  even  as  I  said ; 
'T  was  thus  his  gracious  majesty 

Ordained  on  his  death-bed. 


190  NARBATIVE. 

"  See,  here  the  will  is  witnessed, 

And  here 's  his  autograph." 
"  In  truth,  our  father's  writing," 

Said  Edward,  with  a  laugh ; 
"  But  thou  shalt  not  be  loser,  Tom, 

We  '11  share  it  half  and  half." 

"  Alas !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 

This  sharing  can  not  be  ; 
'Tis  written  in  the  testament 

That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 
'  I  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give    ' 

Prince  Tom  a  half-penny. 

"  '  He  hath  a  store  of  money, 
But  ne'er  was  known  to  lend  it ; 

He  never  helped  his  brother ; 
The  poor  he  ne'er  befriended ; 

He  hath  no  need  of  property 
He  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 

"  '  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend, 

And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard ; 
Let  Thomas  be  the  steward  then, 

And  Edward  be  the  lord ; 
And  as  the  honest  laborer 

Is  worthy  his  reward, 

"  '  I  pray  Prince  Ned,  my  second  son, 

And  my  successor  dear, 
To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year ; 
And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 

And  live  and  make  good  cheer.' " 

Such  was  old  Brentford's  honest  testament ; 

He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best, 

And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peaceful  rest 
Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made  and  spent ; 

But  his  good  sire  was  wrong,  it  is  confessed, 
To  say  his  young  son  Thomas,  never  lent. 

He  did.     Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest, 
And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent 


NAKJRATIVE.  191 

Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured, 
O'er  Chiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford,  Putney,  Kewj 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne'er  was  cured. 
And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will  do, 

'T  was  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 


TITMARSH'S  CARMEN   LILLIENSE. 

W.    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

LILLE,  Sept.  2,  1843. 
My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 

How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 
I  have  no  money,  Hie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


WITH  twenty  pounds  but  three  weeks  since 
Prom  Paris  forth  did  Titmarsh  wheel, 

I  thought  myself  as  rich  a  prince 
As  beggar  poor  I  'm  now  at  Lille. 

Confiding  in  my  ample  means — 

In  troth,  I  was  a  happy  chiel ! 
I  passed  the  gate  of  Valenciennes. 

I  never  thought  to  come  by  Lille. 

I  never  thought  my  twenty  pounds 
Some  rascal  knave  would  dare  to  steal ; 

I  gayly  passed  the  Belgic  bounds 

At  Quievrain,  twenty  miles  from  Lille. 

To  Antwerp  town  I  hastened  post, 
And  as  I  took  my  evening  meal 

I  felt  my  pouch, — my  purse  was  lost, 
0  Heaven  I     Why  came  I  not  by  Lille  ? 


192  NARRATIVE. 

I  straightway  called  for  ink  and  pen, 
To  grandmamma  I  made  appeal ; 

Meanwhile  a  load  of  guineas  ten 
I  borrowed  from  a  friend  so  leal. 

I  got  the  cash  from  grandmamma 

(Her  gentle  heart  my  woes  could  feel), 

But  where  I  went,  and  what  I  saw, 
What  matters  ?     Here  I  am  at  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  cash,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


n. 

To  stealing  I  can  never  come, 

To  pawn  my  watch  I  'm  too  genteel, 

Besides,  I  left  my  watch  at  home ; 
How  could  I  pawn  it,  then,  at  Lille  ? 

"  La  note"  at  times  the  guests  will  say, 
I  turn  as  white  as  cold  boiled  veal ; 

I  turn  and  look  another  way, 
/  dare  not  ask  the  bill  at  Lille. 

I  dare  not  to  the  landlord  say, 

"  Good  sir,  I  can  not  pay  your  bill :" 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
And  is  quite  proud  I  stay  at  Lille. 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
Like  Rothschild  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 

And  so  he  serves  me  every  day 

The  best  of  meat  and  drink  in  Lille. 

Yet  when  he  looks  me  in  the  face 

I  blush  as  red  as  cochineal ; 
And  think  did  he  but  know  my  case, 

How  changed  he  'd  be,  my  host  of  Lille. 


NARRATIVE.  193 


My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 

m. 

The  sun  bursts  out  in  furious  blaze, 
I  perspirate  from  head  to  heel ; 

I  'd  like  to  hire  a  one-horse  chaise  ; 
How  can  I,  without  cash,  at  Lille  ? 

I  pass  in  sunshine  burning  hot 
By  cafes  where  in  beer  they  deal ; 

I  think  how  pleasant  were  a  pot, 
A  frothing  pot  of  beer  of  Lille  ! 

What  is  yon  house  with  walls  so  thick, 
All  girt  around  with  guard  and  grille  ? 

0,  gracious  gods,  it  makes  me  sick, 
It  is  the  prison-house  of  Lille ! 

0  cursed  prison  strong  and  barred, 
It  does  my  very  blood  congeal  1 

1  tremble  as  I  pass  the  guaid, 
And  quit  that  ugly  part  of  Lille. 

The  church-door  beggar  whines  and  prays, 

I  turn  away  at  his  appeal : 
Ah,  church-door  beggar !  go  thy  ways  ! 

You  're  not  the  poorest  man  in  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 

IV. 

Say,  shall  I  to  yon  Flemish  church, 

And  at  a  Popish  altar  kneel  ? 
0  do  not  leave  me  in  the  lurch, — 

I  '11  cry  ye  patron-saints  of  Lille  I 
9 


194  NARRATIVE. 

Ye  virgins  dressed  in  satin  hoops, 
Ye  martyrs  slain  for^mortal  weal, 

Look  kindly  down !  before  you  stoops 
The  miserablest  man  in  Lille. 

And  lo  1  as  I  beheld  with  awe 
A  pictured  saint  (I  swear  'tis  real). 

It  smiled,  and  turned  to  grandmamma  !— 
It  did !  and  I  had  hope  in  Lille  1 

'T  was  five  o'clock,  and  I  could  eat, 
Although  I  could  not  pay,  my  nieal ; 

I  hasten  back  into  the  street 

Where  lies  iny  inn,  the  best  in  Lille. 

What  see  I  on  my  table  stand,— 
A  letter  with  a  well-known  seal? 

'Tis  grandmamma's  1     I  know  her  hand, — 
To  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  Lille." 

I  feel  a  choking  in  my  throat, 

I  pant  and  stagger,  faint  and  reel ! 

It  is — it  is — a  ten  pound  note, 

And  I  'm  no  more  in  pawn  at  Lille ! 

I  He  goes  off  by  the  diligence  that  evening,  and  is  restored  to 
the  bosom  of  his  happy  family.] 


SHADOWS 

LANTERN, 

DEEP  1  I  own  I  start  at  shadows, 

Listen,  I  will  tell  you  why ; 
(Life  itself  is  but  a  taper, 

Casting  shadows  till  we  die.) 

Once,  in  Italy,  at  Florence, 

I  a  radiant  girl  adored : 
When  she  came,  she  saw,  she  conquered, 

And  by  Cupid  I  was  floored. 


NARRATIVE.  195 

Round  my  heart  her  glossy  ringlets 

Were  mysteriously  entwined — 
And  her  soft  voluptuous  glances 

All  my  inmost  thoughts  divined. 

"  Mia  cara  Mandolina ! 

Are  we  not,  indeed,"  I  cried, 
"  All  the  world  to  one  another  ?" 

Mandolina  smiled  and  sighed. 

Earth  was  Eden,  she  an  angel, 

I  a  Jupiter  enshrined — 
Till  one  night  I  saw  a  damning 

Double  shadow  on  her  blind  I 


"  Fire  and  fury !  double  shadows 

On  their  bed-room  windows  ne'er, 
To  my  knowledge,  have  been  cast  by 

Ladies  virtuous  and  fair. 

"  False,  abandoned,  Mandolina ! 

Fare  thee  well,  for  evermore  ! 
Vengeance  I"  shrieked  I,  "  vengeance !  vengeance  1" 

And  I  thundered  through  the  door. 

This  event  occurred  next  morning ; 

Mandolina  staring  sat, 
Stark  amaz'd,  as  out  I  tumbled, 

Raving  mad,  without  a  hat ! 

Six  weeks  after  I  'd  a  letter, 

On  its  road  six  weeks  delayed — 
With  a  dozen  re-directions 

From  the  lost  one,  and  it  said  : 

"Foolish,  wicked,  cruel  Albert! 

Base  suspicion's  doubts  resign ; 
Double  lights  throw  double  shadows! 

Mandolina — ever  thine." 


196  NARRATIVE. 

"  Heavens,  what  an  ass!"  I  muttered, 
"  Not  before  to  think  of  that  1" — 

And  again  I  rushed  excited 
To  the  rail,  without  a  hat. 

"  Mandolina !  Mandolina !" 

When  her  house  I  reached,  I  cried : 

"  Pardon,  dearest  love  I"  she  answered- 
"  I  'm  the  Russian  Consul's  bride !" 

Thus,  by  Muscovite  barbarian, 

And  by  Fate,  my  life  was  crossed ; 

Wonder  ye  I  start  at  shadows  ? 
Types  of  Mandolina  lost. 


THE    RETORT. 

GEORGE   P.    MORRIS. 

OLD  Nick,  who  taught  the  village  school, 

Wedded  a  maid  of  homespun  habit ; 
He  was  stubborn  as  a  mule, 

She  was  playful  as  a  rabbit. 

Poor  Jane  had  scarce  become  a  wife, 
Before  her  husband  sought  to  make  her 

The  pink  of  country-polished  life, 
And  prim  and  formal  as  a  Quaker. 

One  day  the  tutor  went  abroad, 

And  simple  Jenny  sadly  missed  him  ; 

When  he  returned,  behind  her  lord 
She  slyly  stole,  and  fondly  kissed  him ! 

The  husband's  anger  rose!— and  red 

And  white  his  face  alternate  grew  ! 
"Less  freedom,  ma'am!"— Jane  sighed  and  said, 

«  Oh,  dear!  I  did  n't  know  'twas  you!" 


SATIRICAL 


SATIRICAL, 


THE    RABBLE:    OR,    WHO    PAYS? 

SAMUEL    BUTLER. 

How  various  and  innumerable 
Are  those  who  live  upon  the  rabble ! 
'Tis  they  maintain  the  Church  and  State, 
Employ  the  priest  and  magistrate  ; 
Bear  all  the  charge  of  government, 
And  pay  the  public  fines  and  rent; 
Defray  all  taxes  and  excises, 
And  impositions  of  all  prices ; 
Bear  all  th'  expense  of  peace  and  war, 
And  pay  the  pulpit  and  the  bar ; 
Maintain  all  churches  and  religions, 
And  give  then*  pastors  exhibitions ; 
And  those  who  have  the  greatest  flocks 
Are  primitive  and  orthodox ; 
Support  all  schismatics  and  sects, 
And  pay  them  for  tormenting  texts ; 
Take  all  their  doctrines  off  their  hands, 
And  pay  'em  in  good  rents  and  lands ; 
Discharge  all  costly  offices, 
The  doctor's  and  the  lawyer's  fees, 
The  hangman's  wages,  and  the  scores 
Of  caterpillar  bawds  and  whores ; 
Discharge  all  damages  and  costs 
Of  Knights  and  Squires  of  the  Post ; 
All  statesmen,  cut-purses,  and  padders, 
And  pay  for  all  their  ropes  and  ladders ; 
All  pettifoggers,  and  all  sorts 
Of  markets,  churches,  and  of  courts ; 


200  SATIRICAL. 

All  sums  of  money  paid  or  spent, 
With  all  the  charges  incident, 
Laid  out,  or  thrown  away,  or  given 
To  purchase  this  world,  Hell  or  Heaven. 


THE    CHAMELEON. 

MATTHEW   PRIOR. 

As  the  Chameleon  who  is  known 

To  have  no  colors  of  its  own : 

But  borrows  from  his  neighbor's  hue 

His  white  or  black,  his  green  or  blue ; 

And  struts  as  much  in  ready  light^ 

Which  credit  gives  him  upon  sight : 

As  if  the  rainbow  were  in  tail 

Settled  on  him,  and  his  heirs  male ; 

So  the  young  squire,  when  first  he  comes 

From  country  school  to  Will  or  Tom's : 

And  equally,  in  truth  is  fit 

To  be  a  statesman  or  a  wit; 

Without  one  notion  of  his  own, 

He  saunters  wildly  up  and  down ; 

Till  some  acquaintance,  good  or  bad, 

Takes  notice  of  a  staring  lad ; 

Admits  him  in  among  the  gang: 

They  jest,  reply,  dispute,  harangue ; 

He  acts  and  talks,  as  they  befriend  him, 

Smear'd  with  the  colors  which  they  lend  him. 

Thus  merely,  as  his  fortune  chances, 
His  merit  or  his  vice  advances. 

If  haply  he  the  sect  pursues, 
That  read  and  comment  upon  news ; 
He  takes  up  their  mysterious  face : 
He  drinks  his  coffee  without  lace. 
This  week  his  mimic  tongue  runs  o'er 
What  they  have  said  the  week  before ; 
His  wisdom  sets  all  Europe  right, 
And  teaches  Marlborough  when  to  fight. 

Or  if  it  be  his  fate  to  meet 
With  folks  who  have  more  wealth  than  wit : 


SATIRICAL.  201 


He  loves  cheap  port,  and  double  bub ; 
And  settles  in  the  hum-drum  club  : 
He  learns  how  stocks  will  fall  or  rise ; 
Holds  poverty  the  greatest  vice ; 
Thinks  wit  the  bane  of  conversation ; 
And  says  that  learning  spoils  a  nation. 

But  if,  at  first,  he  minds  his  hits, 
And  drinks  champagne  among  the  wits  ! 
Five  deep  he  toasts  the  towering  lasses ; 
Repeats  you  verses  wrote  on  glasses ; 
Is  in  the  chair ;  prescribes  the  law ; 
And  lies  with  those  he  never  saw. 


MERRY    ANDREW. 

MATTHEW    PRIOR. 

SLY  Merry  Andrew,  the  last  Southwark  fair 
(At  Barthol'mew  he  did  not  much  appear: 
So  peevish  was  the  edict  of  the  Mayor) 
At  Southwark,  therefore,  as  his  tricks  he  show'd, 
To  please  our  masters,  and  his  friends  the  crowd  ; 
A  huge  neat's  tongue  he  in  his  right  hand  held : 
His  left  was  with  a  huge  black  pudding  fill'd. 
With  a  grave  look  in  this  odd  equipage, 
The  clownish  mimic  traverses  the  stage : 
Why,  how  now,  Andrew  I  cries  his  brother  droll, 
To-day's  conceit,  methinks,  is  something  dull : 
Come  on,  sir,  to  our  worthy  friends  explain, 
What  does  your  emblematic  worship  mean  ? 
Quoth  Andrew ;  Honest  English  let  us  speak  : 
Your  emble — (what  d'  ye  call 't)  is  heathen  Greek. 
To  tongue  or  pudding  thou  hast  no  pretense  ; 
Learning  thy  talent  is,  but  mine  is  sense. 
That  busy  fool  I  was,  which  thou  art  now ; 
Desirous  to  correct,  not  knowing  how  : 
With  very  good  design,  but  little  wit, 
Blaming  or  praising  things,  as  I  thought  fit. 
I  for  this  conduct  had  what  I  deserv'd ; 
And  dealing  honestly,  was  almost  starv'd. 
9* 


202  SATIRICAL. 

But,  thanks  to  my  indulgent  stars,  I  eat ; 
Since  I  have  found  the  secret  to  be  great. 
0,  dearest  Andrew,  says  the  humble  droll, 
Henceforth  may  I  obey,  and  thou  control ; 
Provided  thou  impart  thy  useful  skill. — 
Bow  then,  says  Andrew ;  and,  for  once,  I  will. — 
Be  of  your  patron's  mind,  whate'er  he  says ; 
Sleep  very  much  :  think  little ;  and  talk  less ; 
Mind  neither  good  nor  bad,  nor  right  nor  wrong, 
But  eat  your  pudding,  slave ;  and  hold  your  tongue. 

A  reverend  prelate  stopp'd  his  coach  and  six, 
To  laugh  a  little  at  our  Andrew's  tricks; 
But  when  he  heard  him  give  this  golden  rule, 
Drive  on  (he  cried) ;  this  fellow  is  no  fool. 


JACK    AND    JOAN. 

MATTHEW   PRIOR. 

Stet  quicunque  volet  potens 

Aulae  culinine  lubrico,  &c.        SBNKOA. 

INTERR'D  beneath  this  marble  stone 

Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 

While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 

Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run ; 

If  human  things  went  ill  or  well; 

If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell ; 

The  morning  past,  the  evening  came, 

And  found  this  couple  still  the  same. 

They  walk'd  and  eat,  good  folks :  what  then  ? 

Why  then  they  walk'd  and  eat  again : 

They  soundly  slept  the  night  away ; 

They  just  did  notliing  all  the  day ; 

And  having  buried  children  four, 

Would  not  take  pains  to  try  for  more ; 

Nor  sister  either  had,  nor  brother ; 

They  seem'd  just  tallied  for  each  other. 

Their  moral  and  economy 
Most  perfectly  they  made  agree : 
Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound, 
Nor  trespass'd  on  the  other's  ground. 


SATIRICAL.  203 

Nor  fame,  nor  censure  they  regarded ; 
They  neither  punish'd  nor  rewarded. 
He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did  ; 
Her  maids  she  neither  prais'd  nor  chid ; 
So  every  servant  took  his  course ; 
And  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse. 
Slothful  disorder  filled  his  stable  ; 
And  sluttish  plenty  deck'd  her  table. 
Their  beer  was  strong ;  their  wine  was  port ; 
Their  meal  was  large  ;  their  grace  was  short. 
They  gave  the  .poor  the  remnant  meat, 
Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate  ; 
And  took,  but  read  not  the  receipt : 
For  which  they  claim  their  Sunday's  due, 
Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to  know ; 
So  never  made  themselves  a  foe, 
No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  commend  ; 
So  never  rais'd  themselves  a  friend. 
Nor  cherish'd  they  relations  poor ; 
That  might  decrease  their  present  store  : 
Nor  barn  nor  house  did  they  repair ; 
That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confounded  ; 
They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 
Each  Christmas  they  accompts  did  clear, 
And  wound  their  bottom  round  the  year. 
Nor  tear  or  smile  did  they  employ 
At  news  of  public  grief  or  joy. 
When  bells  were  rung,  and  bonfires  made, 
If  ask'd  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid ; 
Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  earned, 
Whoever  either  died,  or  married. 
Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 
Whoever  was  depos'd,  or  crown'd. 

Nor  good,  nor  bad,  nor  fools,  nor  wise ; 
They  would  not  learn,  nor  could  advise : 
Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear, 
They  led — a  kind  of — as  it  were : 
Nor  wish'd,  nor  car'd,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  cried : 
And  so  they  liv'd,  and  so  they  died. 


204  SATIRICAL. 


THE    PROGRESS    OF    POETRY. 

DEAN    SWIFT. 

THE  farmer's  goose,  who  in  the  stubble 
Has  fed  without  restraint  or  trouble, 
Grown  fat  with  corn  and  sitting  still, 
Can  scarce  get  o'er  the  barn-door  sill ; 
And  hardly  waddles  forth  to  cool 
Her  belly  in  the  neighboring  pool ! 
Nor  loudly  cackles  at  the  door ; 
For  cackling  shows  the  goose  is  poor. 

But,  when  she  must  be  turn'd  to  graze, 
And  round  the  barren  common  strays, 
Hard  exercise,  and  harder  fare, 
Soon  make  my  dame  grow  lank  and  spare ; 
Her  body  light,  she  tries  her  wings, 
And  scorns  the  ground,  and  upward  springs, 
While  all  the  parish,  as  she  flies, 
Hear  sounds  harmonious  from  the  skies. 

Such  is  the  poet  fresh  in  pay, 
The  third  night's  profits  of  his  play ; 
His  morning  draughts  till  noon  can  swill, 
Among  his  brethren  of  the  quill : 
With  good  roast  beef  his  belly  full, 
Grown  lazy,  foggy,  fat,  and  dull, 
Deep  sunk  in  plenty  and  delight, 
What  poet  e'er  could  take  his  flight  ? 
Or,  stuff' d  with  phlegm  up  to  the  throat, 
What  poet  e'er  could  sing  a  note  ? 
Nor  Pegasus  could  bear  the  load 
Along  the  high  celestial  road  ; 
The  steed,  oppress'd,  would  break  his  girth, 
To  raise  the  lumber  from  the  earth. 

But  view  him  in  another  scene, 
When  all  his  drink  is  Hippocrene, 
His  money  spent,  his  patrons  fail, 
His  credit  out  for  cheese  and  ale ; 
His  two-years'  coat  so  smooth  and  bare, 
Through  every  thread  it  lets  in  air ; 
With  hungry  meals  his  body  pined, 
His  guts  and  bolly  full  of  wind  ; 


SATIRICAL.  206 


And  like  a  jockey  for  a  race, 
His  flesh  brought  down  to  flying  case  : 
Now  his  exalted  spirit  loathes 
Encumbrances  of  food  and  clothes; 
And  up  he  rises  like  a  vapor, 
Supported  high  on  wings  of  paper. 
He  singing  flies,  and  flying  sings, 
While  from  below  all  Grub  street  rings. 


TWELVE    ARTICLES. 

DEAN    SWIFT, 
I. 

LEST  it  may  more  quarrels  breed, 
I  will  never  hear  you  read. 

n. 

By  disputing,  I  will  never, 

To  convince  you  once  endeavor. 


When  a  paradox  you  stick  to, 
I  will  never  contradict  you. 


When  I  talk  and  you  are  heedless, 
I  will  show  no  anger  needless. 


When  your  speeches  are  absurd, 
I  will  ne'er  object  a  word. 

VI. 

When  you  furious  argue  wrong, 
I  will  grieve  and  hold  my  tongue. 

VII. 

Not  a  jest  or  humorous  story 

Will  I  ever  tell  before  ye : 

To  be  chidden  for  explaining, 

When  you  quite  mistake  the  meaning. 


206  SATIRICAL. 

vm. 

Never  more  will  I  suppose, 
You  can  taste  my  verse  or  prose. 

IX. 

You  no  more  at  me  shall  fret, 
While  I  teach  and  you  forget. 

x. 

You  shall  never  hear  me  thunder, 
When  you  blunder  on,  and  blunder. 

XI. 

Show  your  poverty  of  spirit, 
And  hi  dress  place  all  your  merit; 
Give  yourself  ten  thousand  airs  : 
That  with  me  shall  break  no  squares. 

xn. 

Never  will  I  give  advice, 
Till  you  please  to  ask  me  thrice : 
Which  if  you  in  scorn  reject, 
'T  will  be  just  as  I  expect. 

Thus  we  both  shall  have  our  ends, 
And  continue  special  friends. 


THE    BEASTS'    CONFESSION. 

DEAN   STVIFT. 

WHEN  beasts  could  speak  (the  learned  say 

They  still  can  do  so  every  day), 

It  seems,  they  had  religion  then, 

As  much  as  now  we  find  in  men. 

It  happen'd,  when  a  plague  broke  out 

(Which  therefore  made  them  more  devout), 

The  king  of  brutes  (to  make  it  plain, 

Of  quadrupeds  I  only  mean) 

By  proclamation  gave  command, 

That  every  subject  in  the  land 


SATIRICAL.  207 

Should  to  the  priest  confess  their  sins ; 
And  thus  the  pious  Wolf  begins : 
Good  father,  I  must  own  with  shame, 
That  often  I  have  been  to  blame  : 
I  must  confess,  on  Friday  last, 
Wretch  that  I  was  I  I  broke  my  fast : 
But  I  defy  the  basest  tongue 
To  prove  I  did  my  neighbor  wrong ; 
Or  ever  went  to  seek  my  food, 
By  rapine,  theft,  or  thirst  of  blood. 

The  Ass  approaching  next,  confess'd, 
That  in  his  heart  he  loved  a  jest : 
A  wag  he  was,  he  needs  must  own, 
And  could  not  let  a  dunce  alone  : 
Sometimes  his  friend  he  would  not  spare, 
And  might  perhaps  be  too  severe  : 
But  yet  the  worst  that  could  be  said, 
He  was  a  wit  both  born  and  bred ; 
And,  if  it  be  a  sin  and  shame, 
Nature  alone  must  bear  the  blame : 
One  fault  he  has,  is  sorry  for  't, 
His  ears  are  half  a  foot  too  short ; 
Which  could  he  to  the  standard  bring, 
He  'd  show  his  face  before  the  king : 
Then  for  his  voice,  there  's  none  disputes 
That  he  's  the  nightingale  of  brutes. 

The  Swine  with  contrite  heart  allow'd, 
His  shape  and  beauty  made  him  proud  : 
In  diet  was  perhaps  too  nice, 
But  gluttony  was  ne'er  his  vice : 
In  every  turn  of  life  content, 
And  meekly  took  what  fortune  sent : 
Inquire  through  all  the  parish  round, 
A  better  neighbor  ne'er  was  found ; 
His  vigilance  might  some  displease  ; 
'Tis  true,  ha  hated  sloth  like  pease. 

The  mimic  Ape  began  his  chatter, 
How  evil  tongues  his  life  bespatter ; 
Much  of  the  censuring  world  complain'd, 
Who  said,  his  gravity  was  feign'd : 
Indeed,  the  strictness  of  his  morals 
Engaged  him  in  a  hundred  quairels : 


208  SATIRICAL. 

He  saw,  and  he  was  grieved  to  see  't, 
His  zeal  was  sometimes  indiscreet ; 
He  found  his  virtues  too  severe 
For  our  corrupted  times  to  bear ; 
Yet  such  a  lewd  licentious  age 
Might  well  excuse  a  stoic's  rage. 

The  Goat  advanced  with  decent  pace, 
And  first  excused  Ms  youthful  face ; 
Forgiveness  begg'd  that  he  appear'd 
('T  was  Nature's  fault)  without  a  beard. 
'Tis  true,  he  was  not  much  inclined 
To  fondness  for  the  female  kind : 
Not,  as  his  enemies  object, 
From  chance,  or  natural  defect  ; 
Not  by  his  frigid  constitution ; 
But  through  a  pious  resolution : 
For  he  had  made  a  holy  vow 
Of  Chastity,  as  monks  do  now : 
Which  he  resolved  to  keep  forever  hence, 
And  strictly  too,  as  doth  his  reverence. 

Apply  the  tale,  and  you  shall  find, 
How  just  it  suits  with  human  kind. 
Some  faults  we  own ;  but  can  you  guess  ? 
— Why,  virtue  's  carried  to  excess, 
Wherewith  our  vanity  endows  us, 
Though  neither  foe  nor  friend  allows  us. 

The  Lawyer  swears  (you  may  rely  on 't) 
He  never  squeezed  a  needy  client ; 
And  this  he  makes  his  constant  rule, 
For  which  his  brethren  call  him  fool ; 
His  conscience  always  was  so  nice, 
He  freely  gave  the  poor  advice  ; 
By  which  he  lost,  he  may  affirm, 
A  hundred  fees  last  Easter  term ; 
While  others  of  the  learned  robe, 
Would  break  the  patience  of  a  Job. 
No  pleader  at  the  bar  could  match 
His  diligence  and  quick  dispatch  ; 
Ne'er  kept  a  cause,  he  well  may  boast, 
Above  a  term  or  two  at  most 

The  cringing  Knave,  who  seeks  a  place 
Without  success,  thus  tells  his  case  : 


SATIRICAL.  209 

Why  should  he  longer  mince  the  matter  ? 
He  fail'd,  because  he  could  not  flatter : 
He  had  not  learn'd  to  turn  his  coat, 
Nor  for  a  party  give  his  vote : 
His  crime  he  quickly  understood ; 
Too  zealous  for  the  nation's  good  : 
He  found  the  ministers  resent  it, 
Yet  could  not  for  his  heart  repent  it. 

The  Chaplain  vows,  he  can  not  fawn, 
Though  it  would  raise  him  to  the  lawn 
He  pass'd  his  hours  among  his  books ; 
You  find  it  in  his  meager  looks : 
He  might,  if  he  were  worldly  wise, 
Preferment  get,  and  spare  his  eyes ; 
But  owns  he  had  a  stubborn  spirit, 
That  made  him  trust  alone  to  merit ; 
Would  rise  by  merit  to  promotion  ; 
Alas  !  a  mere  chimeric  notion. 

The  Doctor,  if  you  will  believe  him, 
Confess'd  a  sin ;  (and  God  forgive  him  I) 
Call'd  up  at  midnight,  ran  to  save 
A  blind  old  beggar  from  the  grave : 
But  see  how  Satan  spreads  his  snares ; 
He  quite  forgot  to  say  his  prayers. 
He  can  not  help  it,  for  his  heart, 
Sometimes  to  act  the  parson's  part : 
Quotes  from  the  Bible  many  a  sentence, 
That  moves  his  patients  to  repentance ; 
And,  when  his  medicines  do  no  good, 
Supports  their  minds  with  heavenly  food  : 
At  which,  however  well  intended, 
He  hears  the  clergy  are  offended  ; 
And  grown  so  bold  behind  his  back, 
To  call  him  hypocrite  and  quack. 
In  his  own  church  he  keeps  a  seat ; 
Says  grace  before  and  after  meat ; 
And  calls,  without  affecting  airs, 
His  household  twice  a-day  to  prayers. 
He  shuns  apothecaries'  shops, 
And  hates  to  cram  the  sick  with  slops : 
He  scorns  to  make  his  art  a  trade ; 
Nor  bribes  my  lady's  favorite  maid. 


210  SATIRICAL. 

Old  nurse-keepers  would  never  hire, 
To  recommend  him  to  the  squire ; 
Which  others,  whom  he  will  not  name, 
Have  often  practiced  to  their  shame. 

The  Statesman  tells  you,  with  a  sneer, 
His  fault  is  to  be  too  sincere ; 
And  having  no  sinister  ends, 
Is  apt  to  disoblige  his  friends. 
The  nation's  good,  his  master's  glory, 
Without  regard  to  Whig  or  Tory, 
Were  all  the  schemes  he  had  in  view, 
Yet  he  was  seconded  by  few  : 
Though  some  had  spread  a  thousand  lies, 
'T  was  he  defeated  the  excise. 
'T  was  known,  though  he  had  borne  aspersion. 
That  standing  troops  were  his  aversion : 
His  practice  was,  in  every  station, 
To  serve  the  king,  and  please  the  nation. 
Though  hard  to  find  in  every  case 
The  fittest  man  to  fill  a  place : 
His  promises  he  ne'er  forgot, 
But  took  memorials  on  the  spot  ; 
His  enemies,  for  want  of  charity, 
Said  he  affected  popularity ; 
'Tis  true,  the  people  understood, 
That  all  he  did  was  for  their  good ; 
Their  kind  affections  he  has  tried ; 
No  love  is  lost  on  either  side. 
He  came  to  court  with  fortune  clear, 
Which  now  he  runs  out  every  year ; 
Must  at  the  rate  that  he  goes  on, 
Inevitably  be  undone : 
0  !  if  his  majesty  would  please 
To  give  him  but  a  writ  of  ease, 
Would  grant  him  license  to  retire, 
As  it  has  long  been  his  desire, 
By  fair  accounts  it  would  be  found, 
He  's  poorer  by  ten  thousand  pound. 
He  owns,  and  hopes  it  is  no  sin, 
He  ne'er  was  partial  to  his  kin  ; 
He  thought  it  base  for  men  in  stations, 
To  crowd  the  court  with  their  relations : 


SATIRICAL.  211 

Flis  country  was  his  dearest  mother, 
And  every  virtuous  man  his  brother ; 
Through  modesty  or  awkward  shame 
(For  which  he  owns  himself  to  blame), 
He  found  the  wisest  man  he  could, 
Without  respect  to  friends  or  blood ; 
Nor  ever  acts  on  private  views, 
When  he  has  liberty  to  choose. 

The  Sharper  swore  he  hated  play, 
Except  to  pass  an  hour  away  : 
And  well  he  might ;  for,  to  his  cost, 
By  want  of  skill  he  always  lost ; 
He  heard  there  was  a  club  of  cheats, 
Who  had  contrived  a  thousand  feats ; 
Could  change  the  stock,  or  cog  a  die, 
And  thus  deceive  the  sharpest  eye : 
Nor  wonder  how  his  fortune  sunk, 
His  brothers  fleece  him  when  he  's  drunk. 

I  own  the  moral  not  exact, 
Besides,  the  tale  is  false,  in  fact ; 
And  so  absurd,  that  could  I  raise  up, 
From  fields  Elysian,  fabling  ^Esop, 
I  would  accuse  him  to  his  face, 
For  libeling  the  four-foot  race. 
Creatures  of  every  kind  but  ours 
Well  comprehend  their  natural  powers, 
While  we,  whom  reason  ought  to  sway, 
Mistake  our  talents  every  day. 
The  Ass  was  never  known  so  stupid, 
To  act  the  part  of  Tray  or  Cupid ; 
Nor  leaps  upon  his  master's  lap, 
There  to  be  stroked,  and  fed  with  pap, 
As  ^Esop  would  the  world  persuade ; 
He  better  understands  his  trade  : 
Nor  comes  whene'er  his  lady  whistles, 
But  carries  loads,  and  feeds  on  thistles. 
Our  author's  meaning,  I  presume,  is 
A  creature  bipes  et  implumis  ; 
WTherein  the  moralist  design'd 
A  compliment  on  human  kind ; 
For  here  he  owns,  that  now  and  then 
Beasts  may  degenerate  into  men. 


212  SATIRICAL. 


A  NEW  SIMILE  FOR  THE  LADIES. 

WITH   USEFUL   ANNOTATIONS, 

DR.    THOMAS    SHERIDAN.* 

To  make  a  writer  miss  bis  end, 
You've  nothing  else  to  do  but  mend. 

I  OFTEN  tried  in  vain  to  find 

A  similef  for  womankind, 

A  simile,  I  mean,  to  fit  'em, 

In  every  circumstance  to  hit  'em.  I 

Through  every  beast  and  bird  I  went, 

I  ransack'd  every  element; 

And,  after  peeping  through  all  nature, 

To  find  so  whimsical  a  creature, 

A  cloud§  presented  to  my  view, 

And  straight  this  parallel  I  drew : 

Clouds  turn  with  every  wind  about, 
They  keep  us  in  suspense  and  doubt, 
Yet,  oft  perverse,  like  womankind, 
Are  seen  to  scud  against  the  wind : 
And  are  not  women  just  the  same  ? 
For  who  can  tell  at  what  they  aim?|| 

Clouds  keep  the  stoutest  mortals  under, 
When,  bellowing, IF  they  discharge  their  thnnder: 
So,  when  the  alarum-bell  is  rung, 
Of  Xanti's**  everlasting  tongue, 

*  The  following  foot-notes,  which  appear  to  be  Dr.  Sheridan's,  are  replaced 
from  the  Irish  edition.  They  hit  the  ignorance  of  the  ladies  in  that  age. 

t  Most  ladies,  in  reading,  call  this  word  a  smile;  but  they  are  to  note,  it  con 
sists  of  three  syllables,  sim-i-le.  In  English,  a  likeness. 

$  Not  to  hurt  them. 

§  Not  like  a  gun  or  pistol. 

I!  This  is  not  meant  as  to  shooting,  but  resolving. 

^  This  word  is  not  here  to  be  understood  of  a  bull,  but  a  cloud,  which  makes  a 
noise  like  a  bull,  when  it  thunders. 

**  Xanti,  a  nick-name  of  Xantippe,  that  scold  of  glorious  memory,  who  never  let 
poor  Socrates  have  one  moment's  peace  of  mind  ;  yet  with  unexampled  patience 
he  bore  her  pestilential  tongue.  I  shall  beg  the  ladies'  pardon  if  I  insert  a  few 
passages  concerning  her  ;  and  at  the  same  time  I  assure  them  it  is  not  to  lesson 
those  of  the  present  age,  who  are  possessed  of  the  like  laudable  talents;  for  I  will 
confess,  that  I  know  three  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  no  way  inferior  to  Xantippe,  but 
thr\t  they  have  not  as  great  men  to  work  upon. 

When  a  friend  asked  Socrates  how  he  could  bear  the  scolding  of  his  wife  Xan 
tippe,  he  retorted,  and  asked  him  how  he  could  bear  the  gaggling  of  his  geesa. 


SATIRICAL.  213 

The  husband  dreads  its  loudness  more 
Than  lightning's  flash,  or  thunder's  roar. 

Clouds  weep,  as  they  do,  without  pain  • 
And  what  are  tears  but  women's  rain  ? 

The  clouds  about  the  welkin  roam  :* 
And  ladies  never  stay  at  home. 

The  clouds  build  castles  in  the  air, 
A  thing  peculiar  to  the  fair : 
For  all  the  schemes  of  their  forecasting,! 
Are  not  more  solid  nor  more  lasting. 

A  cloud  is  light  by  turns,  and  dark, 
Such  is  a  lady  with  her  spark ; 
Now  with  a  sudden  poutingj  gloom 
She  seems  to  darken  all  the  room ; 
Again  she 's  pleased,  his  fear's  beguiled, § 
And  all  is  clear  when  she  has  smiled. 
In  this  they  're  wondrously  alike, 
(I  hope  this  simile  will  strike)  || 
Though  in  the  darkest  dumpsl  you  view  them, 
Stay  but  a  moment,  you  '11  see  through  them. 

The  clouds  are  apt  to  make  reflection,** 
And  frequently  produce  infection : 


Ay,  but  my  geese  lay  eggs  for  me,  replies  his  friend  ;  So  does  my  wife  bear  chil 
dren,  said  Socrates. — Diog.  Laert. 

Being  asked  at  another  time,  by  a  friend,  how  he  could  bear  her  tongue,  he 
said,  she  was  of  this  use  to  him,  that  she  taught  him  to  bear  the  impertinences 
of  others  with  more  ease  when  he  went  abroad. — Plat,  dt,  Capiend.  ex.  host, 
utilit. 

Socrates  invited  his  friend  Euthymedus  to  supper.  Xantippe,  in  great  rage, 
went  into  them,  and  overset  the  table.  Euthymedus,  rising  in  a  passion  to  go  off, 
My  dear  friend,  stay,  said  Socrates,  did  not  a  hen  do  the  same  thing  at  your 
house  the  other  day,  and  did  I  show  any  resentment? — Plat,  de  ira  cohibenda. 

I  could  give  many  more  instances  of  her  termagancy  and  his  philosophy,  if 
euch  a  proceeding  might  not  look  as  if  I  were  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  expose 
the  fair  sex;  but,  to  show  that  I  have  no  such  design,  I  declare  solemnly,  that  I 
had  much  worse  stories  to  tell  of  her  behavior  to  her  husband,  which  I  rather 
passed  over,  on  account  of  the  great  esteem  which  I  bear  the  ladies,  especially 
those  in  the  honorable  station  of  matrimony. 

*  Ramble. 

t  Not  vomiting. 

J  Thrusting  out  the  lip. 

§  This  is  to  be  understood  not  in  the  sense  of  wort,  when  brewers  put  yeabt  or 
barm  in  it ;  but  its  true  meaning  is,  deceived  or  cheated. 

I  Hit  your  fancy. 

1  Sullen  fits.  We  have  a  merry  jig  called  Dumpty-Deary,  invented  to  rouse 
ladies  from  the  damps. 

**  Reflection  of  the  sun. 


214  SATIRICAL. 

So  Celia,  with  small  provocation, 
.Blasts  every  neighbor's  reputation. 

The  clouds  delight  in  gaudy  show, 
(For  they,  like  ladies,  have  their  bow ;) 
The  gravest  matron*  will  confess, 
That  she  herself  is  fond  of  dress. 

Observe  the  clouds  in  pomp  array'd, 
What  various  colors  are  display'd ; 
The  pink,  the  rose,  the  violet's  dye, 
In  that  great  drawing-room  the  sky ; 
How  do  these  differ  from  our  Graces,  t 
In  garden-silks,  brocades,  and  laces  ? 
Are  they  not  such  another  sight, 
When  met  upon  a  birth-day  night  ? 

The  clouds  delight  to  change  their  fashion 
(Dear  ladies  be  not  in  a  passion !) 
Nor  let  this  whim  to  you  seem  strange, 
Who  every  hour  delight  in  change. 

In  them  and  you  alike  are  seen 
The  sullen  symptoms  of  the  spleen  j 
The  moment  that  your  vapors  rise, 
We  see  them  dropping  from  your  eyes. 

In  evening  fair  you  may  behold 
The  clouds  are  fring'd  with  borrow'd  gold ; 
And  this  is  many  a  lady's  case, 
Who  flaunts  about  in  borrow'd  lace.f 
Grave  matrons  are  like  clouds  of  snow, 
Where  words  fall  thick,  and  soft,  and  slow ; 
While  brisk  coquettes, §  like  rattling  hail, 
Our  ears  on  every  side  assail. 

Clouds  when  they  intercept  our  sight, 
Deprive  us  of  celestial  light : 
So  when  my  Chloe  I  pursue, 
No  heaven  besides  I  have  in  view. 


*  Motherly  woman. 

t  Not  grace  before  and  after  meat,  nor  their  graces  the  duchesses,  but  the 
Graces  which  attended  on  Venus. 

$  Not  Flanders-lace,  but  gold  and  silver  lace.  By  borrowed,  I  mean  such  as 
run  into  honest  tradesmen's  debts,  for  which  they  were  not  able  to  pay,  as  many 
of  them  did  for  French  silver  lace,  against  the  last  birth-day.  Vide  the  shop 
keepers'  books. 

§  Girls  who  love  to  hear  themselves  prate,  and  put  on  a  numter  of  monkey- 
airs  to  catch  men. 


SATIRICAL.  215 


Thus,  on  comparison,*  you  see, 
In  every  instance  they  agree ; 
So  like,  so  very  much  the  same, 
That  one  may  go  by  t'  other's  name. 
Let  me  proclaim!  it  then  aloud, 
That  every  woman  is  a  cloud. 


ON    A    LAPDOG. 

JOHN   GAT. 

SHOCK'S  fate  I  mourn ;  poor  Shock  is  now  no  more : 

Ye  Muses  I  mourn :  ye  Chambermaids  !  deplore. 

Unhappy  Shock  !  yet  more  unhappy  fair, 

Doom'd  to  survive  thy  joy  and  only  care. 

Thy  wretched  fingers  now  no  more  shall  deck, 

And  tie  the  favorite  ribbon  round  his  neck ; 

No  more  thy  hand  shall  smooth  his  glossy  hair, 

And  comb  the  wavings  of  his  pendent  ear. 

Yet  cease  thy  flowing  grief,  forsaken  maid  ! 

All  mortal  pleasures  in  a  moment  fade  : 

Our  surest  hope  is  in  an  hour  destroy'd, 

And  love,  best  gift  of  Heaven,  not  long  enjoy 'd. 

Methinks  I  see  her  frantic  with  despair, 
Her  streaming  eyes,  wrung  hands,  and  flowing  hair  • 
Her  Mechlin  pinners,  rent,  the  floor  bestrow, 
And  her  torn  fan  gives  real  signs  of  woe. 
Hence,  Superstition !  that  tormenting  guest, 
That  haunts  with  fancied  fears  the  coward  breast ; 
No  dread  events  upon  this  fate  attend, 
Stream  eyes  no  more,  no  more  thy  tresses  rend. 
Though  certain  omens  oft  forewarn  a  state, 
And  dying  lions  show  the  monarch's  fate, 
Why  should  such  fears  bid  Celia's  sorrow  rise  ? 
For  when  a  lapdog  falls,  no  lover  dies. 

Cease,  Celia,  cease ;  restrain  thy  flowing  tears, 
Some  warmer  passion  will  dispel  thy  cares. 
In  man  you'll  find  a  more  substantial  bliss, 
More  grateful  toying,  and  a  sweeter  kiss. 

*  I  hope  none  will  be  BO  uncomplaisant  to  the  ladies  as  to  think  these  compar 
isons  are  odious. 
t  Tell  the  whole  world  ;  not  to  proclaim  them  as  robhers  and  rapparees. 


216  SATIRICAL. 

He 's  dead.     Oh !  lay  him  gently  in  the  ground  ! 
And  may  his  tomb  be  by  this  verse  renown'd  : 
"  Here  Shock,  the  pride  of  all  his  kind,  is  laid, 
Who  fawn'd  like  man,  but  ne'er  like  man  betray'd." 


THE    RAZOR    SELLER. 

PETER   PINDAR. 

A  FELLOW  in  a  market  town, 

Most  musical,  cried  razors  up  and  down, 

And  offered  twelve  for  eighteen-pence  ; 
Which  certainly  seemed  wondrous  cheap, 
And  for  the  money  quite  a  heap, 

As  every  man  would  buy,  with  cash  and  sense. 

A  country  bumpkin  the  great  offer  heard : 

Poor  Hodge,  who  suffered  by  a  broad  black  beard, 

That  seemed  a  shoe-brush  stuck  beneath  his  nose  • 
With  cheerfulness  the  eighteen-pence  he  paid, 
And  proudly  to  himself,  in  whispers,  said, 

"  This  rascal  stole  the  razors,  I  suppose. 

"  No  matter  if  the  fellow  be  a  knave, 
Provided  that  the  razors  shave  ; 

It  certainly  will  be  a  monstrous  prize." 
So  home  the  clown,  with  his  good  fortune,  went, 
Smiling  in  heart  and  soul,  content, 

And  quickly  soaped  himself  to  ears  and  eyes. 

Being  well  lathered  from  a  dish  or  tub, 
Hodge  now  began  with  grinning  pain  to  grub, 

Just  like  a  hedger  cutting  furze  : 
'T  was  a  vile  razor ! — then  the  rest  he  tried- 
All  were  imposters — "  Ah,"  Hodge  sighed  ! 

"  I  wish  my  eighteen-pence  within  my  purse." 

In  vain  to  chase  his  beard,  and  bring  the  graces, 

He  cut,  and  dug,  and  winced,  and  stamped,  and  swore, 

Brought  blood,  and  danced,  blasphemed,  and  made  wry 

faces, 
And  cursed  each  razor's  body  o'er  and  o'er : 


SATIRICAL.  <J  1 

His  muzzle,  formed  of  opposition  stuff, 
Firm  as  a  Foxite,  would  not  lose  its  nitt": 

So  kept  it — laughing  at  the  steel  arid  suds : 
Hodge,  in  a  passion,  stretched  his  angry  jaws, 
Vowing  the  direst  vengeance,  with  clenched  claws, 

On  the  vile  cheat  that  sold  the  goods. 
"  Razors !  a  damned,  confounded  dog, 
Not  fit  to  scrape  a  hog !" 

Hodge  sought  the  fellow — found  him — and  begun : 
"  P'rhaps,  Master  Razor  rogue,  to  you  'tis  fun, 

That  people  flay  themselves  out  of  their  lives : 
You  rascal !  for  an  hour  have  I  been  grubbing, 
Giving  my  crying  whiskers  here  a  scrubbing, 

With  razors  just  like  oyster  Knives. 
Sirrah !  I  tell  you,  you  're  a  knave, 
To  cry  up  razors  that  can't  shave." 

11  Friend,"  quoth  the  razor-man,  "  I  'm  not  a  knave : 
As  for  the  razors  you  have  bought, 
Upon  my  soul  I  never  thought 
That  they  would  shave" 
"Not  think  they'd  shave/"  quoth  Hodge,  with  wondYiu* 

eyes, 

And  voice  not  much  unlike  an  Indian  yell ; 
"  What  were  they  made  for  then,  you  dog?"  he  cries : 
"  Made  1"  quoth  the  fellow,  with  a  smile—"  to  sell" 


THE    SAILOR    BOY    AT   PRAYERS. 

PETER    PINDAR 

A  GREAT  law  Chief,  whom  God  nor  demon  scares, 
Compelled  to  kneel  and  pray,  who  swore  his  prayers, 

The  devil  behind  him  pleased  and  grinning, 
Patting  the  angry  lawyer  on  the  shoulder, 
Declaring  naught  was  ever  bolder, 

Admiring  such  a  novel  mode  of  sinning : 

Like  this,  a  subject  would  be  reckoned  rare, 
Which  proves  what  blood  game  infidels  can  dare  ; 
Which  to  my  memory  brings  a  fact, 
Which  nothing  but  an  English  tar  would  act, 
10 


218  SATIRICAL. 

In  ships  of  war,  on  Sunday's,  prayers  are  givt-n  ; 
For  though  so  wicked,  sailors  think  of  heaven, 

Particularly  in  a  storm ; 
Where,  if  they  find  no  brandy  to  get  druuk, 
Their  souls  are  in  a  miserable  funk, 

Then  vow  they  to  th'  Almighty  to  reform. 
If  in  His  goodness  only  once,  once  more, 
He  '11  suffer  them  to  clap  a  foot  on  shore. 

In  calms,  indeed,  or  gentle  airs, 

They  ne'er  on  weekdays  pester  heaven  with  prayers ; 

For  'tis  among  the  Jacks  a  common  saying, 

"  Where  there 's  no  danger,  there 's  no  need  of  prayinj 

One  Sunday  morning  all  were  met 

To  hear  the  parson  preach  and  pray, 
All  but  a  boy,  who,  willing  to  forget 

That  prayers  were  handing  out,  had  stolen  away, 
And,  thinking  praying  but  a  useless  task, 
Had  crawled  to  take  a  nap,  into  a  cask. 

The  boy  was  soon  found  missing,  and  full  soon 
The  boatswain's  cat,  sagacious  smelt  him  out ; 

Gave  him  a  clawing  to  some  tune — 

This  cat's  a  cousin  Germain  to  the  Knout. 

"  Come  out,  you  skulking  dog,"  the  boatswain  crie  1, 
"  And  save  your  d d  young  sinful  soul." 

He  then  the  moral-mending  cat  applied, 
And  turned  him  like  a  badger  from  his  hole. 

Sulky  the  boy  marched  on,  and  did  not  mind  him, 
Altho'  the  boatswain  flogging  kept  behind  him : 
"  Flog,"  cried  the  boy,  "  flog — curse  me,  flog  away — 
I  '11  go — but  mind — G-  d  d — n  me  if  I  '11  pray'' 


BIENSEANCE. 

PETER   PINDAR. 

THERE  is  a  little  moral  thing  in  France, 
Called  by  the  natives  bienseance  ; 
Much  are  the  English  mob  inclined  to  scout  it, 
But  rarely  is  Monsieur  Canaille  without  it. 


SATIRICAL.  219 

To  bienseance  'tis  tedious  to  incline, 

In  many  cases; 

To  flatter,  par  example,  keep  smooth  faces 
When  kicked,  or  suffering  grievous  want  of  coin. 

To  vulgars,  bienseance  may  seem  an  oddity — 
I  deem  it  a  most  portable  commodity  ; 

A  sort  of  magic  wand ; 
Which,  if  'tis  used  with  ingenuity, 
Although  a  utensil  of  much  tenuity, 

In  place  of  something  solid,  it  will  stand. 

For  verily  I  've  marveled  times  enow 

To  see  an  Englishman,  the  ninny, 
Give  people  for  their  services  a  guinea, 

Which  Frenchmen  have  rewarded  with  a  bow. 

Bows  are  a  bit  of  bienseance 
Much  practiced  too  in  that  same  France : 
Yet  called  by  Quakers,  children  of  inanity  ; 
But  as  they  pay  their  court  to  people's  vanity, 
Like  rolling-pins  they  smooth  where'er  they  go 
The  souls  and  faces  of  mankind  like  dough ! 
With  some,  indeed,  may  bienseance  prevail 
To  folly — see  the  under-written  tale. 


THE  PETIT  MAITRE,  AND  THE  MAN  ON  THE  WHEEL. 

At  Paris  some  time  since,  a  murdering  IUHU, 

A  German,  and  a  most  unlucky  chap. 
Sad,  stumbling  at  the  threshold  of  his  plan, 

Fell  into  Justice's  strong  trap. 

The  bungler  was  condemned  to  grace  the  wheel, 
On  which  the  dullest  fibers  learn  to  feel ; 

His  limbs  secundum  artem  to  be  broke 
Amid  ten  thousand  people,  perhaps,  or  more ; 

Whenever  Monsieur  Ketch  applied  a  stroke, 
The  culprit,  like  a  bullock,  made  a  roar. 

A  flippant  petit  maitre  skipping  by, 

Stepped  up  to  him,  and  checked  him  for  his  cry— 


220  SATIRICAL. 

"Boh!"  quoth  the  German,  "an't  I  'pon  de  wheel? 
D'ye  tink  my  nerfs  and  bons  can't  feel  ?" 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  beau,  "  don't,  don't  be  in  a  passion  ; 
I  've  naught  to  say  about  your  situation ; 
But  making  such  a  hideous  noise  in  France, 
Fellow,  is  contrary  to  bienseance" 


KINGS    AND    COURTIERS. 

PETER   PINDAR. 

How  pleasant  'tis  the  courtier  clan  to  see  ! 

So  prompt  to  drop  to  majesty  the  knee ; 

To  start,  to  run,  to  leap,  to  fly, 

And  gambol  in  the  royal  eye ; 

And,  if  expectant  of  some  high  employ, 

How  kicks  the  heart  against  the  ribs,  for  joy ! 

How  rich  the  incense  to  the  royal  nose! 

How  liquidly  the  oil  of  flattery  flows ! 

But  should  the  monarch  turn  from  sweet  to  sour, 

Which  cometh  oft  to  pass  in  half  an  hour, 

How  altered  instantly  the  courtier  clan ! 

How  faint !  how  pale  !  how  woe-begone,  and  wan ! 

Thus  Corydon,  betrothed  to  Delia's  charms, 
In  fancy  holds  her  ever  in  his  arms : 

In  maddening  fancy,  cheeks,  eyes,  lips  devours  ; 
Plays  with  the  ringlets  that  all  flaxen  flow 
In  rich  luxuriance  o'er  a  breast  of  snow, 

And  on  that  breast  the  soul  of  rapture  pours. 

Night,  too,  entrances — slumber  brings  the  dream — 

Gives  to  his  lips  his  idol's  sweetest  kiss ; 
Bids  the  wild  heart,  high  panting,  swell  its  stream, 

And  deluge  every  nerve  with  bliss : 
But  if  his  nymph  unfortunately  frowns, 
Sad,  chapfallen,  lo  !  he  hangs  himself  or  drowns ! 

Oh,  try  with  bliss  his  moments  to  beguile : 

Strive  not  to  make  your  sovereign  frown — but  smile : 


SATIRICAL.  221 

Sublime  are  royal  nods — most  precious  thing?  ! — 
Then,  to  be  whistled  to  by  kings ! 

To  have  him  lean  familiar  on  one's  shoulder, 
Becoming  thus  the  royal  arm  upholder, 

A  heart  of  very  stone  must  grow  quite  glad. 
Oh!  would  some  king  so  far  himself  demean, 
As  on  my  shoulder  but  for  once  to  lean, 

The  excess  of  joy  would  nearly  make  me  mad  ! 
How  on  the  honored  garment  I  should  dote, 
And  think  a  glory  blazed  around  the  coat ! 

Blessed,  I  should  make  this  coat  my  coat  of  arms, 
In  fancy  glittering  with  a  thousand  charms  ; 

And  show  my  children's  children  o'er  and  o'er ; 
"  Here,  babies,"  I  should  say,  "  with  awe  behold 
This  coat — worth  fifty  times  its  weight  in  gold  : 

This  very,  very  coat  your  grandsire  wore  ! 

"  Here" — pointing  to  the  shoulder — I  should  say, 
"  Here  majesty's  own  hand  so  sacred  lay" — 

Then  p'rhaps  repeat  some  speech  the  king  might  utter; 
As — "Peter,  how  go  sheep  a  score?  what?  what? 
What 's  cheapest  meat  to  make  a  bullock  fat  ? 

Ha3  ?  has  ?  what,  what 's  the  price  of  country  butter  ?" 

Then  should  I,  strutting,  give  myself  an  air, 
And  deem  myself  adorned  with  immortality  : 

Then  should  I  make  the  children,  calf-like  stare, 
And  fancy  grandfather  a  man  of  quality : 

And  yet,  not  stopping  here,  with  cheerful  note, 

The  muse  should  sing  an  ode  upon  the  coat. 

Poor  lost  America,  high  honors  missing, 

Knows  naught  of  smile,  and  nod,  and  sweet  hand-kissing  ; 

Knows  naught  of  golden  promises  of  kings ; 

Knows  naught  of  coronets,  and  stars,  and  strings ; 

In  solitude  the  lovely  rebel  sighs  1 
But  vainly  drops  the  penitential  tear — 

Deaf  as  the  adder  to  the  woman's  cries, 
We  suffer  not  her  wail  to  wound  our  ear : 
For  food  we  bid  her  hopeless  children  prowl, 
And  with  the  sava<?e  of  the  desert  howl. 


222  SATIRICAL. 


PRAYING    FOR    RAIN. 

PETER   PINDAR 

How  difficult,  alas !  to  please  mankind ! 

One  or  the  other  every  moment  mutters : 
This  wants  an  eastern,  that  a  western  wind  : 

A  third,  petition  for  a  southern,  utters. 
Some  pray  for  ram,  and  some  for  frost  and  snow  : 
How  can  Heaven  suit  all  palates  ? — I  don't  know. 

Good  Lamb,  the  curate,  much  approved, 
Indeed  by  all  his  flock  Moved, 

Was  one  dry  summer  begged  to  pray  for  rain : 
The  parson  most  devoutly  prayed — 
The  powers  of  prayer  were  soon  displayed ; 

Immediately  a  torrent  drenched  the  plain. 

It  chanced  that  the  church  warden,  Robin  Jay, 
Had  of  his  meadow  not  yet  saved  the  hay : 

Thus  was  his  hay  to  health  quite  past  restoring. 
It  happened  too  that  Robin  was  from  home  ; 
But  when  he  heard  the  story,  in  a  foam 

He  sought  the  parson,  like  a  lion  roaring. 

"  Zounds !  Parson  Lamb,  why,  what  have  you  been  doing  ? 
A  pretty  storm,  indeed,  ye  have  been  brewing ! 

What !  pray  for  rain  before  I  saved  my  hay ! 
Oh !  you  're  a  cruel  and  ungrateful  man ! 
/  that  forever  help  you  all  I  can  ; 

Ask  you  to  dine  with  me  and  Mistress  Jay, 
Whenever  we  have  something  on  the  spit, 
Or  in  the  pot  a  nice  and  dainty  bit ; 

"  Send  you  a  goose,  a  pair  of  chicken, 
Whose  bones  you  are  so  fond  of  picking ; 

And  often  too  a  cag  of  brandy  1 
You  that  were  welcome  to  a  treat, 
To  smoke  and  chat,  and  drink  and  eat ; 

Making  my  house  so  very  handy ! 

"  You,  parson,  serve  one  such  a  scurvy  trick ! 
Zounds  1  you  must  have  the  bowels  of  Old  Nick. 


S  ATI  1J  1  0  A  L.  223 

What !  bring  the  flood  of  Noah  from  the  skies, 
With  my  fine  field  of  hay  before  your  eyes  1 
A  numskull,  that  I  wer'n't  of  this  aware. — 
Curse  me  but  I  had  stopped  your  pretty  prayer !" 
"  Dear  Mister  Jay  ?"  quoth  Lamb,  "  alas !  alas ! 
I  never  thought  upou  your  field  of  grass." 

"  Lord  !  parson,  you  're  a  fool,  one  might  suppose — 
Was  not  the  field  just  underneath  your  nose  f 
This  is  a  very  pretty  losing  job !" — 
"  Sir,"  quoth  the  curate,  "know  that  Harry  Cobb 

Your  brother  warden  joined,  to  have  the  prayer."— 
"  Cobb!  Cobb  1  why  this  for  Cobb  was  only  sport  : 
What  doth  Cobb  own  that  any  rain  can  hurt  ?" 

Roared  furious  Jay  as  broad  as  he  could  stare. 

"  The  fellow  owns,  as  far  as  I  can  larn, 

A.  few  old  houses  only,  and  a  barn ; 

As  that 's  the  case,  zounds !  what  are  showers  to  him  ? 

Not  Noah's  flood  could  make  his  trumpery  swim. 

"  Besides — why  could  you  not  for  drizzle  pray  ? 
Why  force  it  down  in  buckets  on  the  hay  ? 
Would  /  have  played  with  your  hay  such  a  freak  ? 
No !  I  'd  have  stopped  the  weather  for  a  week." 

"  Dear  Mister  Jay,  I  do  protest, 
I  acted  solely  for  the  best ; 

I  do  affirm  it,  Mister  Jay,  indeed. 
Your  anger  for  this  once  restrain, 
]  'U  never  bring  a  drop  again 

Till  you  and  all  the  parish  are  agreed." 


APOLOGY    FOR    KINGS. 

PETKR    PINDAR. 

As  want  of  candor  really  is  not  right, 

I  own  my  satire  too  inclined  to  bite  : 

On  kings  behold  it  breakfast,  dine,  and  sup — 

Now  shall  she  praise,  and  try  to  make  it  up. 


224  SATIRICAL. 

\Vhy  will  the  simple  world  expect  wise  things, 
.   From  lofty  folk,  particularly  kings  ? 

Look  on  their  poverty  of  education ! 
Adored  and  flattered,  taught  that  they  are  gods, 
And  by  their  awful  frowns  and  nods, 

Jove-like,  to  shake  the  pillars  of  creation ! 

They  scorn  that  little  useful  imp  called  mind, 
Who  fits  them  for  the  circle  of  mankind ! 
Pride  their  companion,  and  the  world  their  hate ; 
Immured,  they  doze  in  ignorance  and  state. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  great  kings  will  condescend 
A  little  with  their  subjects  to  unbend  ! 

An  instance  take  : — A  king  of  this  great  land, 

In  da}'S  of  yore,  we  understand, 
Did  visit  Salisbury's  old  church  so  fair : 

An  Earl  of  Pembroke  was  the  Monarch's  guide  ; 

Incog,  they  traveled,  shuffling  side  by  side ; 
And  into  the  cathedral  stole  the  pair. 

The  verger  met  them  in  his  blue  silk  gown, 

And  humbly  bowed  his  neck  with  reverence  down, 

Low  as  an  ass  to  lick  a  lock  of  hay : 

Looking  the  frightened  verger  through  and  through, 
And  with  his  eye-glass — "  Well,  sir,  who  are  you  ? 

What,  what,  sir  ? — hey,  sir  ?"  deigned  the  king  to  say. 

"  I  am  the  verger  here,  most  mighty  king : 

In  this  cathedral  I  do  every  thing ; 
Sweep  it,  an't  please  ye,  sir,  and  keep  it  clean." 

"  Hey  ?  verger !  verger ! — you  the  verger  ? — hey  ? 

"  Yes,  please  your  glorious  majesty,  I  &e," 
The  verger  answered,  with  the  mildest  mien. 

Then  turned  the  king  about  toward  the  peer, 
And  winked,  and  laughed,  then  whispered  in  his  ear, 
"  Hey,  hey — what,  what — fine  fellow,  'pon  my  word  : 
I  '11  knight  him,  knight  him,  knight  him — hey,  my  lord  ?" 

[It  is  a  satire-royal :  and  if  any  thing  were  yet  wanting  to 
convince  us  that  Master  Pindar  is  no  turncoat,  here  is  proof  suffi 
cient.] 


SATIRICAL.  225 

Then  with  his  glass,  as  hard  as  eye  could  strain, 
He  kenned  the  trembling  verger  o'er  again. 

"  He  's  a  poor  verger,  sire,"  his  lordship  cried : 

"  Sixpence  would  handsomely  requite  him." 
"  Poor  verger,  verger,  hey?"  the  king  replied  : 

"  No,  no,  then,  we  won't  knight  him — no,  won't  knight  him." 

Now  to  the  lofty  roof  the  king  did  raise 

His  glass,  and  skipped  it  o'er  with  sounds  of  praise  ! 

For  thus  his  marveling  majesty  did  speak  : 
"Fine  roof  this,  Master  Verger,  quite  complete; 
High — high  and  lofty  too,  and  clean,  and  neat : 

What,  verger,  what  ?  mop,  mop  it  once  a  week  ?" 

"  An't  please  your  majesty,"  with  marveling  chops, 
The  verger  answered,  "  we  have  got  no  mops 

In  Salisbury  that  will  reach  so  high." 
"  Not  mop,  no,  no,  not  mop  it,"  quoth  the  king — 
"  No,  sir,  our  Salisbury  mops  do  no  such  thing ; 

They  might  as  well  pretend  to  scrub  the  sky." 

MORAL. 

This  little  anecdote  doth  plainly  show 

That  ignorance,  a  king  too  often  lurches ; 
For,  hid  from  art,  Lord !  how  should  monarchs  know 

The  natural  history  of  mops  and  churches  ? 


STORY    THE    SECOND-. 

From  Salisbury  church  to  Wilton  House,  so  grand, 
Returned  the  mighty  ruler  of  the  land — 

"My  lord,  you've  got  fine  statues,"  said  the  king. 
"  A  few !  beneath  your  royal  notice,  sir," 
Replied  Lord  Pembroke — "  Sir,  my  lord,  stir,  stir ; 

Let's  see  them  all.  all,  all,  all,  every  thing. 

"  Who 's  this  ?  who 's  this  ?— who 's  this  fine  fellow  here  ?" 
"  Scsostris,"  bowing  low,  replied  the  peer. 
"  Sir  Sostris,  hey  ? — Sir  Sostris  ? — 'pon  my  word  ! 
Knight  or  a  baronet,  my  lord  ? 
10* 


226  SATIRICAL. 

One  of  my  making  ? — what,  my  lord,  my  making  ?" 
This,  with  a  vengeance,  was  mistaking  ? 

"  /Se-sostris,  sire,"  so  soft,  the  peer  replied — 

"  A  famous  king  of  Egypt,  sir,  of  old." 
"  Oh,  poh  !"  th'  instructed  monarch  snappish  cried, 

"  I  need  not  that — I  need  not  that  be  told." 

"  Pray,  pray,  my  lord,  who 's  that  big  fellow  there  ?" 

"  'Tis  Hercules,"  replies  the  shrinking  peer ; 

"  Strong  fellow,  hey,  my  lord  ?  strong  fellow,  hey  ? 

Cleaned  stables ! — cracked  a  lion  like  a  flea ; 

Killed  snakes,  great  snakes,  that  in  a  cradle  found  him — 

The  queen,  queen's  coming !  wrap  an  apron  around  him. 

Our  moral  is  not  merely  water-gruel — 
It  shows  that  curiosity's  a  jewel ! 

It  shows  with  kings  that  ignorance  may  dwell : 
It  shows  that  subjects  must  not  give  opinions 
To  people  reigning  over  wide  dominions, 

As  information  to  great  folk  is  hell : 

It  shows  that  decency  may  live  with  kings, 
On  whom  the  bold  virtu-men  turn  their  backs; 

And  shows  (for  numerous  are  the  naked  things) 
That  saucy  statues  should  be  lodged  in  sacks. 


ODE    TO    THE    DEVIL. 

PETER    PINDAR. 
The  devil  is  not  so  black  as  he  is  painted. 

Ingratum .  Odi. 

PRINCE  of  the  dark  abodes!  I  ween 
Your  highness  ne'er  till  now  hath  seen 

Yourself  in  meter  shine ; 
Ne'er  heard  a  song  witli  praise  sincere, 
Sweet  warbled  on  your  smutty  ear, 

Before  this  Ode  of  mine. 


SATIRICAL.  227 

Perhaps  the  reason  is  too  plain, 
Thou  triest  to  starve  the  tuneful  train, 

Of  potent  verse  afraid ! 
And  yet  I  vow,  in  all  my  time, 
I  've  not  beheld  a  single  rhyme 

That  ever  spoiled  thy  trade. 

I  've  often  read  those  pious  whims — 
John  Wesley's  sweet  damnation  hymns, 

That  chant  of  heavenly  riches. 
What  have  they  done  ? — those  heavenly  strains, 
Devoutly  squeezed  from  canting  brains, 

But  filled  John's  earthly  breeches  ? 

There  's  not  a  shoe-black  in  the  land, 
So  humbly  at  the  world's  command, 

As  thy  old  cloven  foot ; 
Like  lightning  dost  thou  fly,  when  called, 
And  yet  no  pickpocket 's  so  mauled 

As  thou,  O  Prince  of  Soot ! 

What  thousands,  hourly  bent  on  sin, 
With  supplication  call  thee  in, 

To  aid  them  to  pursue  it; 
Yet,  when  detected,  with  a  lie 
Ripe  at  their  fingers'  ends,  they  cry, 

"  The  Devil  made  me  do  it." 

Behold  the  fortunes  that  are  made, 

By  men  through  rouguish  tricks  in  trade, 

Yet  all  to  thee  are  owing — 
And  though  we  meet  it  every  day, 
The  sneaking  rascals  dare  not  say, 

This  is  the  Devil's  doing. 

As  to  thy  company,  I  'm  sure, 

No  man  can  shun  thee  on  that  score ; 

The  very  best  is  thine  : 
With  kings,  queens,  ministers  of  state, 
Lords,  ladies,  I  have  seen  thee  great, 

And  many  a  grave  divine. 


228  SATIRICAL. 

I  'm  sorely  grieved  at  times  to  find, 
The  very  instant  thou  art  kind, 

Some  people  so  uncivil, 
When  aught  offends,  with  face  awry, 
With  base  ingratitude  to  cry, 

"  I  wish  it  to  the  Devil." 

Hath  some  poor  blockhead  got  a  wife, 
To  be  the  torment  of  his  life, 

By  one  eternal  yell — 
The  fellow  cries  out  coarsely,  "Zounds, 
I  'd  give  this  moment  twenty  pounds 

To  see  the  jade  in  hell" 

Should  Heaven  their  prayers  so  ardent  grant, 
Thou  never  company  wouldst  want 

To  make  thee  downright  mad ; 
For,  mind  me,  in  their  wishing  mood, 
They  never  offer  thee  what 's  good, 

But  every  thing  that 's  bad. 

My  honest  anger  boils  to  view 

A  sniffling,  long-faced,  canting  crew, 

So  much  thy  humble  debtors, 
Rushing,  on  Sundays,  one  and  all, 
With  desperate  prayers  thy  head  to  maul, 

And  thus  abuse  their  betters. 

To  seize  one  day  in  every  week, 
On  thee  their  black  abuse  to  wreak, 

By  whom  their  souls  are  fed 
Each  minute  of  the  other  six, 
With  every  joy  that  heart  can  fix, 

Is  impudence  indeed  I 

Blushing  I  own  thy  pleasing  art 
Hath  oft  seduced  my  vagrant  heart, 

And  led  ray  steps  to  joy — 
The  charms  of  beauty  have  been  mine ; 
And  let  me  call  the  merit  thine, 

Who  broughtet  the  lovely  toy. 


SATIRICAL.  229 

No,  Satan — if  I  ask  thy  aid, 

To  give  my  arms  the  blooming  maid. 

I  will  not,  though  the  nation  all, 
Proclaim  thee  (like  a  gracless  imp) 
A  vile  old  good-for-nothing  pimp, 

But  say,  "  'Tig  thy  vocation,  Hal." 

Since  truth  must  out — I  seldom  knew 
What 't  was  high  pleasure  to  pursue, 

Till  thou  hadst  won  my  heart — 
So  social  were  we  both  together, 
And  beat  the  hoof  in  every  weather, 

I  never  wished  to  part. 

Yet  when  a  child — good  Lord !  I  thought 
That  thou  a  pair  of  horns  hadst  got, 

With  eyes  like  saucers  staring  ! 
And  then  a  pair  of  ears  so  stout, 
A  monstrous  tail  and  hairy  snout, 

With  claws  beyond  comparing. 

Taught  to  avoid  the  paths  of  evil, 
By  day  I  used  to  dread  the  devil, 

And  trembling  when  't  was  night, 
Methought  I  saw  thy  horns  and  ears, 
They  sung  or  whistled  to  my  fears, 

And  ran  to  chase  my  fright. 

And  every  night  I  went  to  bed, 
I  sweated  with  a  constant  dread, 

And  crept  beneath  the  rug ; 
There  panting,  thought  that  in  my  sleep 
Thou  slyly  in  the  dark  wouldst  creep, 

And  eat  me,  though  so  snug. 

A  haberdasher's  shop  is  thine, 

With  sins  of  all  sorts,  coarse  and  fine, 

To  suit  both  man  and  maid : 
Thy  wares  they  buy,  with  open  eyes ; 
How  cruel  then,  with  constant  cries, 

To  vilify  thy  trade  ! 


280  SATIRICAL. 

To  speak  the  truth,  indeed,  I  'm  loath — 
Life 's  deemed  a  mawkish  dish  of  broth, 

Without  thy  aid,  old  sweeper ; 
So  mawkish,  few  will  put  it  down, 
Even  from  the  cottage  to  the  crown, 

Without  thy  salt  and  pepper. 

0  Satan,  whatsoever  geer, 

Thy  Proteus  form  shall  choose  to  wear, 

Black,  red,  or  blue,  or  yellow  ; 
Whatever  hypocrites  may.  say, 
They  think  thee  (trust  my  honest  lay) 

A  most  bewitching  fellow. 

'Tis  ordered  (to  deaf  ears,  alas !) 

To  praise  the  bridge  o'er  which  we  pass 

Yet  often  I  discover 
A  numerous  band  who  daily  make 
An  easy  bridge  of  thy  poor  back, 

And  damn  it  when  they  're  over. 

Why  art  thou,  then,  with  cup  in  hand, 
Obsequious  to  a  graceless  band, 

Whose  souls  are  scarce  worth  taking ; 

0  prince,  pursue  but  my  advice, 

1  '11  teach  your  highness  in  a  trice 

To  set  them  all  a  quaking. 

Plays,  operas,  masquerades,  destroy  : 
Lock  up  each  charming  fitte  dejoie; 

Give  race-horses  the  glander — 
The  dice-box  break,  and  burn  each  card- 
Let  virtue  be  its  own  reward, 

And  gag  the  mouth  of  slander ; 

In  one  week's  time,  I  '11  lay  my  life, 
There  's  not  a  man,  nor  maid,  nor  wife, 

That  will  not  glad  agree, 
If  thou  will  charm  'em  as  before, 
To  show  their  nose  at  church  no  more, 

But  quit  their  God  for  thee. 


SATIRICAL.  231 


'TLs  now  full  time  my  ode  should  end  : 
And  now  I  tell  thee  like  a  friend, 

Ilowe'er  the  world  may  scout  thee  ; 
Thy  ways  are  all  so  wond'rous  winning 
And  folks  so  very  fond  of  sinning, 

They  can  not  do  without  thee. 


THE  KING  OF  SPAIN  AND  THE  HORSE. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

IN  seventeen  hundred  seventy-eight, 

The  rich,  the  proud,  the  potent  King  of  Spain, 

Whose  ancestors  sent  forth  their  troops  to  smite 
The  peaceful  natives  of  the  western  main, 

With  faggots  and  the  blood-delighting  sword, 

To  play  the  devil,  to  oblige  the  Lord ! 

For  hunting,  roasting  heretics,  and  boiling, 
Baking  and  barbecuing,  frying,  broiling, 

Was  thought  Heaven's  cause  amazingly  to  further ; 
For  which  most  pious  reason,  hard  to  work, 
They  went,  with  gun  and  dagger,  knife  and  fork, 

To  charm  the  God  of  mercy  with  their  murthcr ! 

I  Bay,  this  King,  in  seventy-eight  surveyed, 
In  tapestry  so  rich,  portrayed, 

A  horse  with  stirrups,  crupper,  bridle,  saddle : 
Within  the  stirrup,  lo,  the  monarch  tried 
To  fix  his  foot  the  palfry  to  bestride  ; 

In  vain ! — he  could  not  o'er  the  palfry  straddle ! 

Stiff  as  a  Turk,  the  beast  of  yarn  remained, 
And  every  effort  of  the  King  disdained, 
Who,  'midst  his  labors,  to  the  ground  was  tumbled, 
And  greatly  mortified,  as  well  as  humbled. 

Prodigious  was  the  struggle  of  the  day, 
The  horse  attempted  not  to  run  away ; 

At  which  the  poor-chafed  monarch  now  'gan  grin, 
And  swore  by  every  saint  and  holy  martyr, 
He  would  not  yield  the  traitor  quarter, 

Until  he  got  possession  of  his  skin. 


S  A  T  I  II  I  C  A  L . 

Not  fiercer  famed  La  Mancha's  knight, 

Higlit  Quixote,  at  a  puppet-show, 
Did  with  more  valor  stoutly  fight, 

And  terrify  each  little  squeaking  foe ; 
When  bold  he  pierced  the  lines,  immortal  fray  ! 
And  broke  their  pasteboard  bones,  and  stabbed  their  hearts 
of  hay. 

Not  with  more  energy  and  fury 

The  beauteous  street- walker  of  Drury 

Attacks  a  sister  of  the  smuggling  trade, 
Whose  winks,  and  nods,  and  sweet  resistless  smile, 
Ah,  me  !  her  paramour  beguile, 

And  to  her  bed  of  healthy  straw  persuade  ; 
Where  mice  with  music  charm,  and  vermin  craw), 
And  snails  with  silver  traces  deck  the  wall. 

And  now  a  cane,  and  now  a  whip  he  used, 
And  now  he  kicked,  and  sore  the  palfry  bruised  ; 
Yet,  lo,  the  horse  seemed  patient  at  each  kick, 
And  bore  with  Christian  spirit  whip  and  stick ; 
And  what  excessively  provoked  this  prince, 
The  horse  so  stubborn  scorned  even  once  to  wince. 

Now  rushed  the  monarch  for  a  bow  and  arrow 
To  shoot  the  rebel  like  a  sparrow  ; 
And,  lo,  with  shafts  well  steeled,  with  all  his  force, 
Just  like  a  pincushion,  he  stuck  the  horse  ! 

Now  with  the  fury  of  the  chafed  wild  boar, 
With  nails  and  teeth  the  wounded  horse  he  tore, 

Now  to  the  floor  he  brought  the  stubborn  beast; 
Now  o'er  the  vanquish'd  horse  that  dared  rebel. 
Most  Indian-like  the  monarch  gave  a  yell, 

Pleased  on  the  quadruped  his  eyes  to  feast ; 
Blessed  as  Achilles  when  with  fatal  wound 
He  brought  the  mighty  Hector  to  the  ground. 

Yet  more  to  gratify  his  godlike  ire, 
He  vengeful  flung  the  palfry  in  the  fire  1 
Showing  his  pages  round,  poor  trembling  things, 
How  dangerous  to  resist  the  will  of  kings. 


SATIRICAL.  2:>:>> 


THE  TENDER  HUSBAND. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

Lo,  to  the  cruel  hand  of  fate, 

My  poor  dear  Grizzle,  meek-souled  mate, 

Resigns  her  tuneful  breath — 
Though  dropped  her  jaw,  her  lip  though  pale, 
And  blue  each  harmless  finger-nail, 

She 's  beautiful  in  death. 

As  o'er  her  lovely  limbs  I  weep, 
I  scarce  can  think  her  but  asleep — 

How  wonderfully  tame ! 
And  yet  her  voice  is  really  gone, 
And  dim  those  eyes  that  lately  shone 

With  all  the  lightning's  flame. 

Death  was,  indeed,  a  daring  wight, 
To  take  it  in  his  head  to  smite — 

To  lift  his  dart  to  hit  her ; 
For  as  she  was  so  great  a  woman, 
And  cared  a  single  fig  for  no  man, 

I  thought  he  feared  to  meet  her. 

Still  is  that  voice  of  late  so  strong, 
That  many  a  sweet  capriccio  sung, 

And  beat  in  sounds  the  spheres ; 
No  longer  must  those  fingers  play 
"  Britons  strike  home,"  that  many  a  day 

Hath  soothed  my  ravished  ears. 

Ah  me  !  indeed  I  'm  much  inclined 
To  think  how  I  may  speak  my  mind, 

Nor  hurt  her  dear  repose ; 
Nor  think  I  now  with  rage  she  'd  roar, 
Were  I  to  put  my  fingers  o'er, 

And  touch  her  precious  nose. 

Here  let  me  philosophic  pause — 
How  wonderful  are  nature's  laws, 


234  SATIRICAL. 

When  ladies'  breath  retires, 
Its  fate  the  flaming  passions  share, 
Supported  by  a  little  air, 

Like  culinary  fires. 

Whene'er  I  hear  the  bagpipe's  note, 
Shall  fancy  fix  on  Grizzle's  throat, 

And  loud  instructive  lungs ; 
0  Death,  in  her,  though  only  one, 
Are  lost  a  thousand  charms  unknown, 

At  least  a  thousand  tongues. 

Soon  as  I  heard  her  last  sweet  sigh, 
And  saw  her  gently-closing  eye, 

How  great  was  my  surprise  ! 
Yet  have  I  not,  with  impious  breath, 
Accused  the  hard  decrees  of  death, 

Nor  blamed  the  righteous  skies. 

Why  do  I  groan  in  deep  despair, 
Since  she  '11  be  soon  an  angel  fair  ? 

Ah !  why  my  bosom  smite  ? 
Could  grief  my  Grizzle's  life  restore ! — 
But  let  me  give  suc^  ravings  o'er — 

Whatever  is,  is  right. 

0  doctor !  you  are  come  too  late  ; 
No  more  of  physic's  virtues  prate, 

That  could  not  save  my  lamb : 
Not  one  more  bolus  shall  be  given — 
You  shall  not  ope  her  mouth  by  heaven, 

And  Grizzle's  gullet  cram. 

Enough  of  boluses,  poor  heart, 
And  pills,  she  took,  to  load  a  cart, 

Before  she  closed  her  eyes  : 
But  now  my  word  is  here  a  law, 
Zounds !  with  a  bolus  in  her  jaw, 

She  shall  not  seek  the  skies. 

Good  sir,  good  doctor,  go  away  ; 

To  hear  my  sighs  you  must  not  stay, 


SATIRICAL.  235 

For  this  my  poor  lost  treasure : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains  and  skill ; 
When  next  you  come,  pray  bring  your  bill ; 
I  '11  pay  it,  sir,  with  pleasure?. 

Ye  friends  who  come  to  mourn  her  doom, 
For  God's  sake  gently  tread  the  room, 

Nor  call  her  from  the  blessed — 
In  softest  silence  drop  the  tear, 
In  whispers  breathe  the  fervent  prayer, 

To  bid  her  spirit  rest. 

Repress  the  sad,  the  wounding  scream ; 
I  can  not  bear  a  grief  extreme — 

Enough  one  little  sigh — 
Besides,  the  loud  alarm  of  grief, 
In  many  a  mind  may  start  belief, 

Our  noise  is  all  a  lie. 

Good  nurses,  shroud  my  lamb  with  care  ; 
Her  limbs,  with  gentlest  fingers,  spare, 

Her  mouth,  ah!  slowly  close; 
Her  mouth  a  magic  tongue  that  held — 
Whose  softest  tone,  at  times,  compelled 

To  peace  my  loudest  woes. 

And,  carpenter,  for  my  sad  sake, 
Of  stoutest  oak  her  coffin  make — 

I  'd  not  be  stingy,  sure — 
Procure  of  steel  the  strongest  screws; 
For  who  could  paltry  pence  refuse 

To  lodge  his  wife  secure  ? 

Ye  people  who  the  corpse  convey, 
With  caution  tread  the  doleful  way, 

Nor  shake  her  precious  head ; 
Since  Fame  reports  a  coffin  tossed, 
With  careless  swing  against  a  post, 

Did  once  disturb  the  dead. 

Farewell,  my  love,  forever  lost ! 
Ne'er  troubled  be  thy  gentle  ghost, 


SATIRICAL. 


That  I  again  will  woo — 
By  all  our  past  delights,  my  dear, 
No  more  the  marriage  chain  I  '11  wear, 

Deil  take  me  if  I  do ! 


THE  SOLDIER  AND  THE  VIRGIN   MARY. 

PETER    PINDAR. 

A  SOLDIER  at  Loretto's  wondrous  chapel, 

To  parry  from  his  soul  the  wrath  Divine, 
That  followed  mother  Eve's  unlucky  apple, 

Did  visit  oft  the  Virgin  Mary's  shrine  ; 
Who  every  day  is  gorgeously  decked  out, 

In  silks  or  velvets,  jewels,  great  and  small. 
Just  like  a  fine  young  lady  for  a  rout, 

A  concert,  opera,  wedding,  or  a  ball. 

At  first  the  Soldier  at  a  distance  kept, 

Begging  her  vote  and  interest  in  heaven— 

With  seeming  bitterness  the  sinner  wept, 

Wrung  his  two  hands,  and  hoped  to  be  forgiven : 

Dinned  her  two  ears  with  Ave-Mary  flummery ! 
Declared  what  miracles  the  dame  could  do, 
Even  with  her  garter,  stocking;  or  her  shoe, 

And  such  like  wonder-working  mummery. 

What  answer  Mary  gave  the  wheedling  sinner, 
Who  nearly  and  more  nearly  moved  to  win  her, 
The  mouth  of  history  doth  not  mention, 
And  therefore  I  can't  tell  but  by  invention. 

One  day,  as  he  was  making  love  and  praying, 
And  pious  Aves,  thick  as  herring,  saying, 

And  sins  so  manifold  confessing ; 
He  drew,  as  if  to  whLsper,  very  near, 
And  twitched  a  pretty  diamond  from  her  ear, 

Instead  of  taking  the  good  lady's  blessing. 


SATIRICAL.  237 

Then  off  he  set,  with  nimble  shanks, 

Nor  once  turned  back  to  give  her  thanks : 

A  hue  and  cry  the  thief  pursued, 

Who,  to  his  cost,  soon  understood 

That  he  was  not  beyond  the  claw 

Of  that  same  long-armed  giant,  christened  La\v. 

With  horror  did  his  judges  quake — 

As  for  the  tender-conscienced  jury, 
They  doomed  him  quickly  to  the  stake, 

Such  was  their  devilish  pious  fury. 

However,  after  calling  him  hard  names, 

They  asked  if  aught  he  had  in  vindication, 
To  save  his  wretched  body  from  the  flames, 

And  sinful  soul  from  terrible  damnation. 

The  Soldier  answered  them  with  much  sang  frail. 
Which  showed,  of  sin,  a  Conscience  void, 

That  if  they  meant  to  kill  him  they  might  kill  : 
As  for  the  diamond  which  they  found  about  him, 
He  hoped  they  would  by  no  means  doubt  him, 

That  madam  gave  it  him  from  pure  good-will. 

The  answer  turned  both  judge  and  jury  pale  : 

The  punishment  was  for  a  time  deferred, 
Until  his  Holiness  should  hear  the  tale, 

And  his  infallibility  be  heard. 

The  Pope,  to  all  his  counselors,  made  known 
This  strange  affair — to  cardinals  and  friars, 

Good  pious  gentlemen,  who  ne'er  were  known 
To  act  like  hypocrites,  and  thieves,  and  liars. 

The  question  now  was  banded  to  and  fro, 
If  Mary  had  the  power  to  give,  or  no. 

That  Mary  could  not  give  it,  was  to  say 

The  wonder-working  lady  wanted  power — 

This  was  the  stumbling-block  that  stopped  the  way— 
This  made  Pope,  cardinals,  and  friars 


238  SATIRICAL. 

To  save  the  Virgin's  credit,  lo ! 

And  keep  secure  the  diamonds  that  were  left: 
They  said,  she  might,  indeed,  the  gein  bestow, 

And  consequently  it  might  be  no  theft  : 
But  then  they  passed  immediately  an  act, 
That  every  one  discovered  in  the  fact 
Of  taking  presents  from  the  Virgin's  hand, 
Or  from  the  saints  of  any  land, 
Should  know  no  mercy,  but  be  led  to  slaughter, 
Flayed  here,  and  fried  eternally  hereafter. 

Ladies,  I  deem  the  moral  much  too  clear 

To  need  poetical  assistance  ; 
Which  bids  you  not  let  men  approach  too  near, 

But  keep  the  saucy  .fellows  at  a  distance ; 
Since  men  you  find,  so  bold,  are  apt  to  seize 
Jewels  from  ladies,  even  upon  their  knees ! 


A  KING  OF  FRANCE  AND  THE  FAIR  LADY 

PETER   PINDAR. 

A  KING  of  France  upon  a  day, 

With  a  fair  lady  of  his  court, 
Was  pleased  at  battledore  to  play — 

A  very  fashionable  sport. 

Into  the  bosom  of  this  fair  court  dame, 

Whose  whiteness  did  the  snow's  pure  whiteness  shame. 

King  Louis  by  odd  mischance  did  knock 

The  shuttlecock, 

Thrice  happy  rogue,  upon  the  town  of  doves, 
To  nestle  with  the  pretty  little  loves ! 

"  Now,  sire,  pray  take  it  out" — quoth  she, 
Writh  an  arch  smile. — But  what  did  he  ? 

What  ?  what  to  charming  modesty  belongs  ! 
Obedient  to  her  soft  command, 
He  raised  it — but  not  with  his  hand  1 

No,  marveling  reader,  but  the  chimney  tonga. 


SATIRICAL.  2oi> 


What  a  chaste  thought  in  this  good  kiir_r ! 

How  clever ! 
When  shall  we  hear  agen  of  such  a  thing  ? 

Lord!  never. 

Now  were  our  princes  to  be  prayed 
To  such  an  act  by  some  fair  maid, 

I  '11  bet  my  life  not  one  would  mind  it : 
But  handy,  without  more  ado, 
The  youths  would  search  the  bosom  through, 

Although  it  took  a  day  to  find  it! 


THE    EGGS. 

FROM    THE    SPANISH    OF  YRIARTE. 

G.    H.    DEVEREUX. 

BEYOND  the  sunny  Pliilippines 
An  island  lies,  whose  name  I  do  not  know ; 
But  that  'a  of  little  consequence,  if  so 
You  understand  that  there  they  had  no  hens ; 
Till,  by  a  happy  chance,  a  traveler, 
After  a  while,  carried  some  poultry  there. 
Fast  they  increased  as  any  one  could  wish ; 
Until  fresh  eggs  became  the  common  dish. 
But  all  the  natives  ate  them  boiled — they  . -ay — 
Because  the  stranger  taught  no  other  way. 
At  last  the  experiment  by  one  was  tried — 
Sagacious  man  ! — of  having  his  eggs  fried. 
And,  0 !  what  boundless  honors,  for  his  pain-. 
His  fruitful  and  inventive  fancy  gains ! 
Another,  now,  to  have  them  baked  devised — 
Most  happy  thought ! — and  still  another,  spiced. 
Who  ever  thought  eggs  were  so  delicate ! 
Next,  some  one  gave  his  friends  an  omelette  : 
"Ah  !"  all  exclaimed,  "what  an  ingenious  feat!" 
But  scarce  a  year  went  by,  an  artiste  shouts, 
"I  have  it  now — ye  're  all  a  pack  of  louts ! — 
With  nice  tomatoes  all  my  eggs  are  stewed." 
And  the  whole  island  thought  the  mode  so  good, 
That  they  would  so  have  cooked  them  to  this  day, 
But  that  a  stranger,  wandering  out  that  way, 


240  SATIRICAL. 

Another  dish  the  gaping  natives  taught, 

And  showed  them  eggs  cooked  a  la  Huguenot. 


Successive  cooks  thus  proved  their  skill 

But  how  shall  I  be  able  to  rehearse 

All  of  the  new,  delicious  condiments 

That  luxury,  from  time  to  time,  invents  ? 

Soft,  hard,  and  dropped;  and  now  with  sugar  swvet, 

And  now  boiled  up  with  milk,  the  eggs  they  eai  ; 

In  sherbet,  in  preserves  ;  at  last  they  tickle 

Their  palates  fanciful  with  eggs  in  pickle. 

All  had  their  day  —  the  last  was  still  the  best. 

But  a  grave  senior  thus,  one  day,  addressed 

The  epicures  :  "  Boast,  ninnies,  if  you  will, 

These  countless  prodigies  of  gastric  skill— 

But  blessings  on  the  man  who  brought  the  hen*  /" 

Beyond  the  sunny  Philippines 

Our  crowd  of  modern  authors  need  not  go 

New-fangled  modes  of  cooking  eggs  to  show. 


THE    ASS    AND    HIS    MASTER. 

FROM   THK    SPANISH    OF    YRIARTE. 

G.    H.    DEVERLCX 

"  ON  good  and  bad  an  equal  value  sets 

The  stupid  mob.     From  me  the  worst  it  gets, 

And  never  fails  to  praise."     With  vile  pretense, 
The  scurrilous  author  thus  his  trash  excused. 

A  poet  shrewd,  hearing  the  lame  defense, 
Indignant,  thus  exposed  the  argument  abused. 

A  Donkey's  master  said  unto  his  beast, 
While  doling  out  to  him  his  lock  of  straw, 

"  Here,  take  it — since  such  diet  suits  your  taste, 
And  much  good  may  it  do  your  vulgar  maw  I" 

Often  the  slighting  speech  the  man  repeated. 

The  Ass — Ixis  quiet  mood  by  insult  heated — 


SATIRICAL.  241 

Replies :  "  Just  what  you  choose  to  give,  I  take, 

Master  unjust !  but  not  because  I  choose  it 
Think  you  I  nothing  like  but  straw  ?     Then  make 

The  experiment.     Bring  corn,  and  see  if  I  refuse  it." 
Ye  caterers  for  the  public,  hence  take  heed 

How  your  defaults  by  false  excuse  you  cover ! 
Fed  upon  straw — straw  it  may  eat,  indeed : 

Try  it  with  generous  fare — 't  will  scorn  the  other. 


THE    LOVE    OF   THE   WORLD    REPROVED;    OR, 
HYPOCRISY   DETECTED. 

WILLIAM   COWPER. 

THUS  says  the  prophet  of  the  Turk, 
Good  Mussulman,  abstain  from  pork ; 
There  is  a  part  in  every  $wine 
No  friend  or  follower  of  mine 
May  taste,  whate'er  his  inclination, 
On  pain  of  excommunication. 
Such  Mohammed's  mysterious  charge, 
And  thus  he  left  the  point  at  large. 
Had  he  the  sinful  part- expressed, 
They  might  with  safety  eat  the  rest ; 
But  for  one  piece  they  thought  it  hard 
From  the  whole  hog  to  be  debarred  ; 
And  set  their  wit  at  work  to  find 
What  joint  the  prophet  had  in  mind. 
Much  controversy  straight  arose, 
These  chose  the  back,  the  belly  those ; 
By  some  'tis  confidently  said 
He  meant  not  to  forbid  the  head ; 
While  others  at  that  doctrine  rail, 
And  piously  prefer  the  tail. 
Thus,  conscience  freed  from  every  clog, 
Mohammedans  eat  up  the  hog. 

You  laugh — 'tis  well. — The  tale  applied 
May  make  you  laugh  on  t'  other  side. 
Renounce  the  world — the  preacher  cries. 
We  do — a  multitude  replies. 
11 


242  SATIRICAL. 

While  one  as  innocent  regards 
A  snug  and  friendly  game  at  cards  ; 
And  one,  whatever  you  may  say, 
Can  see  no  evil  in  a  play ; 
Some  love  a  concert,  or  a  race ; 
•   And  others  shooting,  and  the  chase. 
Reviled  and  loved,  renounced  and  followed, 
Thus,  bit  by  bit,  the  world  is  swallowed  ; 
Each  thinks  his  neighbor  makes  too  free, 
Yet  likes  a  slice  as  well  as  he ; 
With  sophistry  their  sauce  they  sweeten, 
Till  quite  from  tail  to  snout  'tis  eaten. 


KEPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE, 

NOT   TO   BE   FOUND    IN    ANY    OF   THE   BOOKS. 

WILLIAM    Cu\VPER 

BETWEEN  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 
The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong ; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning ; 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 

And  your  lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  to  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court — 

Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is ;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

Again,  would  your  lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  nose, 

Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then? 


SATIRICAL.  243 

On  the  whole  it  appeal's,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn. 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how), 

He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes ; 
But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 

For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 

That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut ! 


HOLY    WILLIE'S    PRAYER.* 

ROBERT    BURNS. 

0  THOU,  wha  in  the  heavens  dost  dwell, 
Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel', 

Sends  ane  to  heaven,  and  ten  to  hell, 

A'  for  thy  glory, 
And  no  for  ony  guid  or  ill 

They've  done  afore  thee ! 

1  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might, 
When  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night, 
That  I  am  here,  afore  thy  sight, 

For  gifts  an'  grace, 
A  burnin'  an'  a  shinin'  light 

To  a'  this  place. 

•  Kennedy  gives  the  following  account*  of  the  origin  of  "  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer:" — Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq.,  Clerk  of  Ayr,  the  Poet's  friend  and  benefac 
tor,  was  accosted  one  Sunday  morning  by  a  mendicant,  who  begged  alms  of 
him.  Not  recollecting  that  it  was  the  Sabbath,  Hamilton  set  the  man  to  work  in 
his  garden,  which  lay  on  the  public  road,  and  the  poor  fellow  was  discovered  by 
the  people  on  their  way  to  the  kirk,  and  they  immediately  stoned  him  from  the 
ground.  For  this  offense,  Mr.  Hamilton  was  not  permitted  to  have  a  child 
christened,  which  his  wife  bore  him  soon  afterward,  until  he  applied  to  the 
synod.  His  most  officious  opponent  was  William  Fisher,  one  of  the  elders  of 
the  church  :  and  to  revenge  the  insult  to  his  friend,  Bums  made  him  the  subject 
of  this  humorous  ballad. 


244  SATIRICAL. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation, 
That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation  ! 
I,  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation, 

For  broken  laws, 
Five  thousand  years  'fore  my  creation, 

Thro'  Adam's  cause. 

When  frae  my  mither's  womb  I  fell, 
Thou  might  hae  plung'd  me  into  hell, 
To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burnin'  lake, 
Whare  damned  devils  roar  and  yell, 

Chain' d  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample  ; 

To  show  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample ; 

I  'm  here  a  pillar  hi  thy  temple, 

Strong  as  a  rock, 
A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 

To  a'  thy  flock. 

[0  L — d,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  benr, 
When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers  swear. 
And  singing  there,  and  dancing  here, 

Wi'  great  and  sma' ; 
For  I  am  keepit  by  thy  fear, 

Free  frae  them  a\] 

But  yet,  0  L — d  1  confess  I  must, 
At  times  I  'm  fash'd  wi'  fleshly  lust ; 
And  sometimes,  too,  wi'  warldly  trust, 

Vile  self  gets  in  ; 
But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defil'd  in  sin. 


SATTRTOAL.  245 


May  be  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 

Beset  thy  servant  e'en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  proud  should  turn, 

'Cause  he 's  sae  gifted ; 
If  sae,  thy  han'  maun  e'en  be  borne, 

Until  thou  lift  it. 

L — d,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place, 
For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race  : 
But  Or — d  confound  their  stubborn  face, 

And  blast  their  name, 
Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace 

And  public  shame. 

L — d,  mind  G-awn  Hamilton's  deserts, 
He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  cartes, 
Yet  has  sae  mony  takin'  arts, 

Wi'  great  and  sma', 
Frae  G — d's  ain  priests  the  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa'. 

An'  whan  we  chasten'd  him  therefore, 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore, 
As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

0'  laughin'  at  us ; — 
Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

L — d,  hear  my  earnest  cry  and  pray'r, 

Against  the  presbyt'ry  of  Ayr ; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  L — d,  mak'  it  bare 

Upo'  their  heads, 
L — d,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 


SATIEICAL. 

O  L — d  my  Gr — d,  that  glib-tongu'd  Aiken, 

My  very  heart  and  saul  are  quakin', 

To  think  how  we  stood  groanin',  shakin', 

And  swat  wi'  dread, 
While  Auld  wi'  hinging  lip  gaed  snakin', 

And  hid  his  head. 

L — d,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him, 
L — d,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 
And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  'em, 

Nor  hear  their  pray'r ; 
But  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em, 

And  dinna  spare. 

But,  L — d,  remember  me  and  mine, 
Wi'  mercies  temp'ral  and  divine, 
That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 

Excell'd  by  nane, 
An'  a'  the  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Amen,  Amen ! 


EPITAPH    ON    HOLT    WILLIE 

HERE  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay 

Taks  up  its  last  abode ; 
His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way, 

I  fear,  the  left-hand  road. 

Stop  !  there  he  is,  as  sure 's  a  gun, 

Poor,  silly  body,  see  him ; 
Nae  wonder  he 's  as  black 's  the  grun— 

Observe  wha's  standing  wi'  him  I 

Tour  brunstane  devilship,  I  see, 
Has  got  him  there  before  ye ; 

But  baud  your  nine-tail  cat  a  wee, 
Till  ance  ye've  heard  my  story. 

Tour  pity  I  will  not  implore, 

For  pity  ye  hae  nane  1 
Justice,  alas  !  has  gi'en  him  o'er, 

And  mercy's  day  is  gane. 


SATIRICAL.  247 

But  hear  me,  sir,  deil  as  ye  are, 

Look  something  to  your  credit; 
A  coof  like  him  wad  stain  your  name, 

If  it  were  kent  ye  did  it. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    DEIL. 

ROBERT    BURNS. 

"O  Prince!  O  Chief  of  many  throned  Pow'rs, 
That  led  tn'  embattled  Seraphim  to  war!"  — 

MILTON. 

0  THOU  1  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  and  sootie, 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie, 

To  scaud  poor  wretches  ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Ilangie,  for  a  wee, 
An*  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 

1  'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie, 

E'en  to  a  deil, 

To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me, 
An'  hear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  power,  an'  great  thy  fame  ; 
Far  kenn'd  and  noted  is  thy  name : 
An'  tho'  yon  lowin  heugh's  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far : 
An,'  faith !  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roaring  lion, 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin' ; 
Whyles  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin' 

Tirlin  the  kirks ; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin', 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I  've  heard  my  reverend  Grannie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray ; 


248  SATIRICAL. 

Or  where  auld  ruin'd  castles,  gray, 

Nod  to  the  moon, 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way 
Wi'  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she 's  heard  you  bummin', 

Wi'  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rustlin,  thro'  the  boortries  comin', 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin'  light, 

Wi'  you,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright 

Ayont  the  lough  ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sough. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 

Each  bristTd  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 

When  wi'  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick — quaick — 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter'd,  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an'  wither'd  hags, 
Tell  how  wi'  you,  on  ragweed  nags, 
They  skim  the  muirs  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed ; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain, 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain : 
For,  oh !  the  yellow  treasure 's  taen 

By  witching  skill ; 
An'  daw  tit,  twal-pint  hawkie's  gaen 

As  yell's  the  bilL 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse 

On  young  guidmen,  fond,  keen,  an'  crouse , 


SATIRICAL . 

When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house, 
By  cantrip  wit, 

Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse, 
Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An'  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord, 
Then  water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord, 

By  your  direction  j 
An*  nighted  trav'lers  are  allur'd 

To  their  destruction. 

An'  aft  your  moss-traversing  spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is : 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 

Delude  his  eyes, 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

When  masons'  mystic  word  an'  grip 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell  1 
The  youngest  brother  ye  wad  whip 

Aff  straught  to  hell  1 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

The  raptur'd  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow'ry  sward, 

In  shady  bow'r : 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snec-drawing  dog! 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog., 

An'  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa' !) 
An'  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  an'  reestit  gizz, 
11* 


249 


250  SATIRICAL. 

Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

'Mang  better  folk, 

An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  ? 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall, 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hall, 
While  scabs  an'  botches  did  him  gall, 

Wi'  bitter  claw, 
And  lows'd  his  ill-tongu'd,  wicked  scawl, 

Was  warst  ava  ? 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse, 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin'  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinkin', 
A  certain  Bardie's  rantin',  drinkin', 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin' 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But,  faith !  he  '11  turn  a  corner  jinkin', 

An'  cheat  you  yet. 

But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  I 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men'  I 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake — 

1  'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake ! ! 


THE  DEVIL'S  WALK  ON  EARTH. 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

FROM  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 
To  look  at  his  snug  little  farm  of  the  World, 

And  see  how  his  stock  wont  on. 


SATIRICAL. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain ; 
And  backward  and  forward  he  swisn'd  his  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  a  cane. 

How  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

Oh,  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best 
His  coat  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 
And  there  was  a  hole  where  his  tail  came  through. 

A  lady  drove  by  in  her  pride, 

In  whose  face  an  expression  he  spied 

For  which  he  could  have  kiss'd  her ; 
Such  a  flourishing,  fine,  clever  woman  was  she, 
With  an  eye  as  wicked  as  wicked  can  be, 
I  should  take  her  for  my  Aunt,  thought  he, 

If  my  dam  had  had  a  sister. 

He  met  a  lord  of  high  degree, 
No  matter  what  was  his  name  ; 
Whose  face  with  bis  own  when  he  came  to  compare 

The  expression,  the  look,  and  the  air, 
And  the  character,  too,  as  it  seem'd  to  a  hair — 
Such  a  twin-likeness  there  was  in  the  pair 
That  it  made  the  Devil  start  and  stare, 
For  he  thought  there  was  surely  a  looking-glass  theiv 
But  he  could  not  see  the  frame. 

He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper, 

On  a  dung-hill  beside  his  stable ; 
Ha !  quoth  he,  thou  put'st  me  in  mind 

Of  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel. 

An  Apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by  on  his  vocation ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelation. 

He  pass'd  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility, 
And  he  own'd  with  a  grin 
That  his  favorite  sin, 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 


SATIRICAL. 

He  saw  a  pig  rapidly 

Down  a  river  float ; 
The  pig  swam  well,  but  every  stroke 

Was  cutting  his  own  throat; 

And  Satan  gave  thereat  his  tail 

A  twirl  of  admiration ; 
For  he  thought  of  his  daughter  War, 

And  her  suckling  babe  Taxation. 

Well  enough,  in  sooth,  he  liked  that  truth, 
And  nothing  the  worse  for  the  jest ; 

But  this  was  only  a  first  thought 
And  in  this  he  did  not  rest : 

Another  came  presently  into  his  head, 

And  here  it  proved,  as  has  often  been  said, 
That  second  thoughts  are  best 

For  as  Piggy  plied  with  wind  and  tide, 

His  way  with  such  celerity, 
And  at  every  stroke  the  water  dyed 
With  his  own  red  blood,  the  Devil  cried, 
Behold  a  swinish  nation's  pride 

In  cotton-spun  prosperity. 

He  walk'd  into  London  leisurely, 

The  streets  were  dirty  and  dim  : 
But  there  he  saw  Brothers  the  Prophet, 

And  Brothers  the  Prophet  saw  him. 

He  entered  a  thriving  bookseller's  shop  ; 

Quoth  he,  we  are  both  of  one  college, 
For  I  myself  sate  like  a  Cormorant  once 

Upon  the  Tree  of  Knowledge. 

As  he  passed  through  Cold-Bath  Fields  he  look'd 

At  a  solitary  cell ; 
And  he  was  well-pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  liint 

For  improving  the  prisons  of  Hell. 

He  saw  a  turnkey  tie  a  thief  s  hands 

With  a  cordial  tug  and  jerk  ; 
Nimbly,  quoth  he,  a  man's  fingers  move 

When  his  heart  is  in  his  work. 


SATIRICAL.  25*1 

He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfettering  a  man 

With  little  expedition ; 

And  he  chuckled  to  think  of  his  dear  slave-trade, 
And  the  long  debates  and  delays  that  were  made. 

Concerning  its  abolition. 

He  met  one  of  his  favorite  daughters 

By  an  Evangelical  Meeting : 
And  forgetting  himself  for  joy  at  her  sight, 
He  would  have  accosted  her  outright^ 

And  given  her  a  fatherly  greeting. 

But  she  tipt  him  the  wink,  drew  back,  and  cried, 

Avaunt !  my  name  's  Religion  ! 
And  then  she  turn'd  to  the  preacher 

And  leer'd  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 

A  fine  man  and  a  famous  Professor  was  he, 
As  the  great  Alexander  now  may  be, 
Whose  fame  not  yet  o'erpast  is : 
Or  that  new  Scotch  performer 
Who  is  fiercer  and  warmer, 
The  great  Sir  Arch-Bombastes. 

With  throbs  and  throes,  and  ah's  and  oh'a. 

Far  famed  his  flock  for  frightning ; 
And  thundering  with  his  voice,  the  while 

His  eyes  zigzag  like  lightning. 

This  Scotch  phenomenon,  I  trow, 

Beats  Alexander  hollow ; 
Even  when  most  tame 
He  breathes  more  flame 

Then  ten  Fire-Kings  could  swallow. 

Another  daughter  he  presently  met ; 

With  music  of  fife  and  drum, 

And  a  consecrated  flag, 

And  shout  of  tag  and  rag, 

And  march  of  rank  and  file, 
Which  had  fill'd  the  crowded  aisle 
Of  the  venerable  pile, 

From  church  he  saw  her  come. 


254  SATIRICAL. 

He  call'd  her  aside,  and  began  to  chide, 
For  what  dost  thou  here  ?  said  he  ; 
My  city  of  Rome  is  thy  proper  home, 
And  there 's  work  enough  there  for  thee. 

Thou  hast  confessions  to  listen, 

And  bells  to  christen, 
And  altars  and  dolls  to  dress ; 

And  fools  to  coax, 

And  sinners  to  hoax, 
And  beads  and  bones  to  bless ; 

And  great  pardons  to  sell 

For  those  who  pay  well, 
And  small  ones  for  those  who  pay  less. 

*    Nay,  Father,  I  boast,  that  this  is  my  post, 
She  answered  ;  and  thou  wilt  allow, 

That  the  great  Harlot, 

Who  is  clothed  in  scarlet, 
Can  very  well  spare  me  now. 

Upon  her  business  I  am  come  here, 
That  we  may  extend  our  powers : 
Whatever  lets  down  this  church  that  we  hate, 
Is  something  in  favor  of  ours. 

You  will  not  think,  great  Cosmocrat ! 

That  I  spend  my  time  in  fooling ; 
Many  irons,  my  sire,  have  we  in  the  fire, 

And  I  must  leave  none  of  them  cooling ; 
For  you  must  know  state-councils  here, 
Are  held  which  I  bear  rule  in. 
When  my  liberal  notions, 
Produce  mischievous  motions, 
There 's  many  a  man  of  good  intent, 
In  either  house  of  Parliament, 
Whom  I  shall  find  a  tool  in ; 
And  I  have  hopeful  pupils  too 
Who  all  this  while  are  schooling. 

Fine  progress  they  make  in  our  liberal  opinions, 
My  Utilitarians, 


SATIRICAL.  255 

My  all  sorts  of — inian3 
And  all  sorts  of — arians ; 
My  all  sorts  of — ists, 
And  my  Prigs  and  my  Whigs 
Who  have  all  sorts  of  twists 
Train'd  in  the  very  way,  I  know, 
Father,  you  would  have  them  go ; 

High  and  low, 

Wise  and  foolish,  great  and  small, 
March-of-Intellect-Boys  all. 

Well  pleased  wilt  thou  be  at  no  very  far  day 

When  the  caldron  of  mischief  boils, 
And  I  bring  them  forth  in  battle  array 

And  bid  them  suspend  their  broils, 
That  they  may  unite  and  fall  on  the  prey, 

For  which  we  are  spreading  our  toils. 
How  the  nice  boys  all  will  give  mouth  at  the  call, 

Hark  away  !  hark  away  to  the  spoils  ! 
My  Macs  and  my  Quacks  and  my  lawless-Jacks, 
My  Shiels  and  O'Connells,  my  pious  Mac-Domiells, 

My  joke-smith  Sydney,  and  all  of  his  kidney, 
My  Humes  and  my  Broughams, 
My  merry  old  Jerry, 

My  Lord  Kings,  and  my  Doctor  Doyles  I 

At  this  good  news,  so  great 
The  Devil's  pleasure  grew, 
That  with  a  joyful  swish  he  rent 

The  hole  where  his  tail  came  through. 


His  countenance  fell  for  a  moment 

When  he  felt  the  stitches  go  ; 
Ah !  thought  he,  there  's  a  job  now 

That  I  've  made  for  my  tailor  below. 

Great  news  I  bloody  news !  cried  a  newsman ; 

The  Devil  said,  Stop,  let  me  see  ! 
Great  news  ?  bloody  news  ?  thought  the  Devil, 

The  bloodier  the  better  for  me. 


256  SATIRICAL. 

So  he  bought  the  newspaper,  and  no  news 

At  all  for  his  money  he  had. 
Lying  varlet,  thought  he,  thus  to  take  in  old  Nick  I 

But  it 's  some  satisfaction,  my  lad, 
To  know  thou  art  paid  beforehand  for  the  trick, 

For  the  sixpence  I  gave  thee  is  bad. 

And  then  it  came  into  his  head 

By  oracular  inspiration, 
That  what  he  had  seen  and  what  he  had  said 

In  the  course  of  this  visitation, 
Would  be  published  in  the  Morning  Post 

For  all  this  reading  nation. 

Therewith  in  second  sight  he  saw 
The  place  and  the  manner  and  time, 

In  which  this  mortal  story 

Would  be  put  in  immortal  rhyme. 

That  it  would  happen  when  two  poets 

Should  on  a  time  be  met, 
In  the  town  of  Nether  Stowey, 

In  the  shire  of  Somerset. 

There  while  the  one  was  shaving 

Would  he  the  song  begin ; 
And  the  other  when  he  heard  it  at  breakfast, 
In  ready  accord  join  in. 

So  each  would  help  the  other, 
Two  heads  being  better  than  one  ; 

And  the  phrase  and  conceit 

Would  in  unison  meet, 
And  so  with  glee  the  verse  flow  free, 
In  ding-dong  chime  of  sing-song  rhyme, 

Till  the  whole  were  merrily  done. 

And  because  it  was  set  to  the  razor, 

Not  to  the  lute  or  harp, 
Therefore  it  was  that  the  fancy 
Should  be  bright,  and  the  wit  be  sharp. 


SATIRICAL.  257 


But,  then,  said  Satan  to  himself, 

As  for  that  said  beginner, 
Against  my  infernal  Majesty, 

There  is  no  greater  sinner. 

He  hath  put  me  in  ugly  ballads 
With  libelous  pictures  for  sale ; 

He  hath  scoff  d  at  my  hoofs  and  my  horns, 
And  has  made  very  free  with  my  tail. 

But  this  Mister  Poet  shall  find 
I  am  not  a  safe  subject  for  whim ; 

For  I  '11  set  up  a  School  of  my  own, 
And  my  Poets  shall  set  upon  him. 

He  went  to  a  coffee-house  to  dine, 
And  there  he  had  soy  in  his  dish  ; 

Having  ordered  some  soles  for  his  dinner, 
Because  he  was  fond  of  flat  fish. 

They  are  much  to  my  palate,  thought  he, 
And  now  guess  the  reason  who  can, 

Why  no  bait  sliould  be  better  than  place, 
When  I  fish  for  a  Parliament-man. 

But  the  soles  in  the  bill  were  ten  shillings ; 

Tell  your  master,  quoth  he,  what  I  say ; 
If  he  charges  at  this  rate  for  all  things, 

He  must  be  in  a  pretty  good  way. 

But  mark  ye,  said  he  to  the  waiter, 
I  'm  a  dealer  myself  in  this  line, 

And  his  business,  between  you  and  me, 
Nothing  like  so  extensive  as  mine. 

Now  soles  are  exceedingly  cheap, 
Which  he  will  not  attempt  to  deny, 

When  I  see  him  at  my  fish-market, 
I  warrant  him,  by-and-by. 

As  he  went  along  the  Strand 

Between  three  in  the  morning  and  four, 
He  observed  a  queer-looking  person 

Who  staggered  from  Perry's  door. 


1258  SATIRICAL. 

And  he  thought  that  all  the  world  over 
In  vain  for  a  man  you  might  seek, 

Who  could  drink  more  like  a  Trojan 
Or  talk  more  like  a  Greek. 


The  Devil  then  he  prophesied 

It  would  one  day  be  matter  of  talk, 

That  with  wine  when  smitten, 
And  with  wit  moreover  being  happily  bitten, 
The  erudite  bibber  was  he  who  had  written 
The  story  of  this  walk. 

A  pretty  mistake,  quoth  the  Devil  ; 

A  pretty  mistake  I  opine  ! 
I  have  put  many  ill  thoughts  in  his  mouth, 
He  will  never  put  good  ones  in  mine. 

And  whoever  shall  say  that  to  Person 

These  best  of  all  verses  belong, 
He  is  an  untruth-telling  whore-son, 

And  so  shall  be  call'd  in  the  song. 

And  if  seeking  an  illicit  connection  with  fame, 
Any  one  else  should  put  in  a  claim, 

In  this  comical  competition; 
That  excellent  poem  will  prove 

A  man-trap  for  such  foolish  ambition, 
Where  the  silly  rogue  shall  be  caught  by  the  leg, 
And  exposed  in  a  second  edition. 

Now  the  morning  air  was  cold  for  him 

Who  was  used  to  a  warm  abode ; 
And  yet  he  did  not  immediately  wish, 

To  set  out  on  his  homeward  road. 

For  he  had  some  morning  calls  to  make 

Before  he  went  back  to  Hell  ; 
So  thought  he  I  '11  step  into  a  gaming-house, 

And  that  will  do  as  well ; 
But  just  before  he  could  get  to  the  door 

A  wonderful  chance  befell 


SATIRICAL.  259 

For  all  on  a  sudden,  in  a  dark  place, 
He  came  upon  General 's  burning  face ; 

And  it  struck  him  with  such  consternation, 
That  home  in  a  hurry  his  way  did  he  take, 
Because  he  thought,  by  a  slight  mistake 

'T  was  the  general  conflagration. 


CHURCH    AND    STATE. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

WHEN  Royalty  was  young  and  bold, 

Ere,  touch'd  by  Time,  he  had  become — 

If' t  is  not  civil  to  say  old — 

At  least,  a  ci-devant  jeune  homme. 

One  evening,  on  some  wild  pursuit, 

Driving  along,  he  chanced  to  see 
Religion,  passing  by  on  foot, 

And  took  him  in  his  vis-d-vis. 

This  said  Religion  was  a  friar, 

The  humblest  and  the  best  of  men, 
Who  ne'er  had  notion  or  desire 

Of  riding  in  a  coach  till  then. 

"  I  say" — quoth  Royalty,  who  rather 

Enjoy'd  a  masquerading  joke — 
"  I  say,  suppose,  my  good  old  father, 

You  lend  me,  for  a  while,  your  cloak." 

The  friar  consented — little  knew 

What  tricks  the  youth  had  in  his  head ; 

Besides,  was  rather  tempted,  too, 
By  a  laced  coat  he  got  in  stead. 

Away  ran  Royalty,  slap-dash, 

Scampering  like  mad  about  the  town ; 
Broke  windows — shiver'd  lamps  to  smash, 

And  knock'd  whole  scores  of  watchmen  down. 


260  SATIRICAL. 

While  naught  could  they  whose  heads  were  broke, 
Learn  of  the  "  why"  or  the  "  wherefore," 

Except  that 't  was  Religion's  cloak 

The  gentleman,  who  crack'd  them,  wore. 

Meanwhile,  the  Friar,  whose  head  was  turn'd 

By  the  laced  coat,  grew  frisky  too — 
-  Look'd  big — his  former  habits  spurn' d — 
And  storm' d  about  as  great  men  do — 

Dealt  much  in  pompous  oaths  and  curses — 
Said  "  Damn  you,"  often,  or  as  bad — 

Laid  claim  to  other  people's  purses — 
In  short,  grew  either  knave  or  mad. 

As  work  like  this  was  unbefitting, 

And  flesh  and  blood  no  longer  bore  it, 

The  Court  of  Common  Sense  then  sitting, 
Summon'd  the  culprits  both  before  it ; 

"Where,  after  hours  in  wrangling  spent 
(As  courts  must  wrangle  to  decide  well), 

Religion  to  St.  Luke's  was  sent, 

And  Royalty  pack'd  off  to  Bridewell : 

With  this  proviso — Should  they  be 
Restored  in  due  time  to  their  senses, 

They  both  must  give  security 
In  future,  against  such  offenses — 

Religion  ne'er  to  lend  his  cloak, 

Seeing  what  dreadful  work  it  leads  to ; 

And  Royalty  to  crack  his  joke — 

But  not  to  crack  poor  people's  heads,  too. 


LYING. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

I  DO  confess,  in  many  a  sigh, 
My  lips  have  breath' d  you  many  a  lie, 
And  who,  with  such  delights  in  view, 
Would  lose  them  for  a  he  or  two  ? 


SATIRICAL.  261 

Nay — look  not  thus,  with  brow  reproving : 
Lies  are,  my  dear,  the  soul  of  loving ! 
If  half  we  tell  the  girls  were  true, 
If  half  we  swear  to  think  and  do, 
Were  aught  but  lying's  bright  illusion, 
The  world  would  be  in  strange  confusion  ! 
If  ladies'  eyes  were,  every  one, 
As  lovers  swear,  a  radiant  sun, 
Astronomy  should  leave  the  skies, 
To  learn  her  lore  in  ladies'  eyes ! 
Oh  no  I — believe  me,  lovely  girl, 
When  nature  turns  your  teeth  to  pearl, 
Your  neck  to  snow,  your  eyes  to  fire, 
Your  yellow  locks  to  golden  wire. 
Then,  only  then,  can  heaven  decree, 
That  you  should  live  for  only  me, 
Or  I  for  you,  as  night  and  morn, 
We  've  swearing  kiss'd,  and  kissing  sworn. 

And  now,  my  gentle  hints  to  clear, 
For  once,  I  '11  tell  you  truth,  my  dear  ! 
Whenever  you  may  chance  to  meet 
A  loving  youth,  whose  love  is  sweet, 
Long  as  you  're  false  and  he  believes  you, 
Long  as  you  trust  and  he  deceives  you, 
So  long  the  blissful  bond  endures ; 
And  while  he  lies,  his  heart  is  yours  : 
But,  oh  !  you  've  wholly  lost  the  youth 
The  instant  that  he  tells  you  truth ! 


THE  MILLENNIUM. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  LATE  WORK  OF  THE  REVEREND  MR.  IRV-NG 
"ON  PROPHECY." 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

MILLENNIUM  at  hand! — I  'm  delighted  to  hear  it — 

As  matters  both  public  and  private  now  go, 
With  multitudes  round  us,  all  starving  or  near  it, 

A  good  rich  millennium  will  come  d  propos. 


262  SATIRICAL. 

Only  think,  Master  Fred,  what  delight  to  behold, 

Instead  of  thy  bankrupt  old  City  of  Rags, 
A  bran-new  Jerusalem,  built  all  of  gold, 

Sound  bullion  throughout,  from  the  roof  to  the  flags — 

A.  city  where  wine  and  cheap  corn  shall  abound — 
A  celestial  Cocaigne,  on  whose  butterfly  shelves 

We  may  swear  the  best  things  of  this  world  will  be  found, 
As  your  saints  seldom  fail  to  take  care  of  themselves  1 

Thanks,  reverend  expounder  of  raptures  elysian, 
Divine  Squintifobus,  who,  placed  within  reach 

Of  two  opposite  worlds  by  a  twist  of  your  vision 
Can  cast,  at  the  same  time,  a  sly  look  at  each ; — 

Thanks,  thanks  for  the  hopes  thou  hast  given  us,  that  we 

May,  even  in  our  times  a  jubilee  share, 
Which  so  long  has  been  promised  by  prophets  like  thee, 

And  so  often  has  fail'd,  we  began  to  despair. 

There  was  Whiston,  who  learnedly  took  Prince  Eugene 
For  the  man  who  must  bring  the  Millennium  about ; 

There 's  Faber,  whose  pious  predictions  have  been 
All  belied,  ere  his  book's  first  edition  was  out ; — 

There  was  Counsellor  Dobbs,  too,  an  Irish  M.P., 
Who  discoursed  on  the  subject  with  signal  eclat, 

And,  each  day  of  his  life,  sat  expecting  to  see 
A  Millennium  break  out  in  the  town  of  Armagh ! 

There  was  also — but  why  should  I  burden  my  lay 

With  your  Brotherses,  Southcotes,  and  names  less  deserving, 

When  all  past  Millenniums  henceforth  must  give  way 
To  the  last  new  Millennium  of  Orator  Irv-ng. 

Go  on,  mighty  man — doom  them  all  to  the  shelf — 

And,  when  next  thou  with  prophecy  troublest  thy  sconce, 

Oh,  forget  not,  I  pray  thee,  to  prove  that  thyself 
Art  the  Beast  (chapter  4)  that  sees  nine  ways  at  once! 


SATIRICAL.  263 

THE  LITTLE   GRAND   LAMA. 

A   FABLE    FOR   PRINCES    ROYAL. 

THOMAS    MOORE. 

IN  Thibet  once  there  reign'd,  we  're  told, 

A  little  Lama,  one  year  old — 

Raised  to  the  throne,  that  realm  to  bless, 

Just  when  his  little  Holiness 

Had  cut — as  near  as  can  be  reckoned — 

Some  say  bis  first  tooth,  some  his  second. 

Chronologers  and  verses  vary, 

Which  proves  historians  should  be  wary. 

We  only  know  the  important  truth — 

His  Majesty  had  cut  a  tooth. 

And  much  his  subjects  were  enchanted, 

As  well  all  Lamas'  subjects  may  be, 
And  would  have  given  their  heads,  if  wanted. 

To  make  tee-totums  for  the  baby 
As  he  was  there  by  Right  Divine 

(What  lawyers  call  Jure  Divino 
Meaning  a  right  to  yours  and  mine, 

And  every  body's  goods  and  rhino) — 
Of  course  his  faithful  subjects'  purses 

Were  ready  with  their  aids  and  succors — • 
Nothing  was  seen  but  pension' d  nurses, 

And  the  land  groan'd  with  bibs  and  tuckers. 

Oh !  had  there  been  a  Hume  or  Bennet 
Then  sitting  in  the  Thibet  Senate, 
Ye  gods,  what  room  for  long  debates 
Upon  the  Nursery  Estimates ! 
What  cutting  down  of  swaddling-clothes 

And  pin-a-fores,  in  nightly  battles ! 
What  calls  for  papers  to  expose 

The  waste  of  sugar-plums  and  rattles ! 
But  no — if  Thibet  had  M.P.s, 
They  were  far  better  bred  than  tho.<e  ; 
Nor  gave  the  slightest  opposition, 
During  the  Monarch's  whole  dentition. 


264  SATIRICAL. 

But  short  this  calm ;  for,  just  when  he 
Had  reach'd  the  alarming  age  of  three, 
When  royal  natures — and,  no  doubt 
Those  of  all  noble  beasts — break  out, 
The  Lama,  who  till  then  was  quiet, 
Show'd  symptoms  of  a  taste  for  riot ; 
And,  ripe  for  mischief,  early,  late, 
Without  regard  for  Church  or  State, 
Made  free  with  whosoe'er  came  nigh — 

Tweak'd  the  Lord  Chancellor  by  the  nose, 
Turn'd  all  the  Judges'  wigs  awry, 

And  trod  on  the  old  General's  toes — 
Pelted  the  Bishops  with  hot  buns, 

Rode  cock-horse  on  the  city  maces, 
And  shot,  from  little  devilish  guns, 

Hard  peas  into  his  subjects'  faces. 
In  short,  such  wicked  pranks  he  play'd, 

And  grew  so  mischievous  (God  bless  him !) 
That  his  chief  Nurse — though  with  the  aid 
Of  an  Archbishop — was  afraid, 

When  in  these  moods,  to  comb  or  dress  him ; 
And  even  the  persons  most  inclined 

For  Kings,  through  thick  and  thin,  to  stickle, 
Thought  him  (if  they  'd  but  speak  their  mind 

Which  they  did  not)  an  odious  pickle. 

At  length,  some  patriot  lords — a  breed 

Of  animals  they  have  in  Thibet, 
Extremely  rare,  and  fit,  indeed, 

For  folks  like  Pidcock  to  exhibit — 
Some  patriot  lords,  seeing  the  length 
To  which  things  went,  combined  their  strength, 
And  penn'd  a  manly,  plain  and  free 
Remonstrance  to  the  Nursery  ; 
In  which,  protesting  that  they  yielded, 

To  none,  that  ever  went  before  'em — 
In  loyalty  to  him  who  wielded 

The  hereditary  pap-spoon  o'er  'em — 
That,  as  for  treason,  't  was  a  thing 

Th-.t  made  them  almost  sick  to  think  of — 
That  they  and  theirs  stood  by  the  King, 

Throughout  his  measles  and  his  chin-cough, 


SATIRICAL.  265 

When  others,  thinking  him  consumptive, 
Had  ratted  to  the  heir  Presumptive ! — 
But  still — though  much  admiring  kings 
(And  chiefly  those  in  leading-strings) — 
They  saw,  with  shame  and  grief  of  soul, 

There  was  no  longer  now  the  wise 
And  constitutional  control 

Of  birch  before  their  ruler's  eyes ; 
But  that,  of  late,  such  pranks  and  tricks, 

And  freaks  occurr'd  the  whole  day  loug, 
As  all,  but  men  with  bishoprics, 

Allow'd,  even  in  a  King,  were  wrong — 
Wherefore  it  was  they  humbly  pray'd 

That  Honorable  Nursery, 
That  such  reforms  be  henceforth  made, 

As  all  good  men  desired  to  see  ; — 
In  other  words  (lest  they  might  seem 
Too  tedious)  as  the  gentlest  scheme 
For  putting  all  such  pranks  to  rest, 

And  in  its  bud  the  mischief  nipping— 
They  ventured  humbly  to  suggest 

His  Majesty  should  have  a  whipping  I 

When  this  was  read — no  Congreve  rocket 

Discharged  into  the  Gallic  trenches, 
E'er  equall'd  the  tremendous  shock  it 

Produc'd  upon  the  Nursery  Benches. 
The  Bishops,  who,  of  course  had  votes, 

By  right  of  age  and  petticoats, 
Were  first  and  foremost  in  the  fuss — 

"  What,  whip  a  Lama ! — suffer  birch 

To  touch  his  sacred infamous ! 

Deistical ! — assailing  thus 

The  fundamentals  of  the  Church ! 
No — no — such  patriot  plans  as  these 
(So  help  them  Heaven — and  their  sees !) 
They  held  to  be  rank  blasphemies." 

The  alarm  thus  given,  by  these  and  other 

Grave  ladies  of  the  Nursery  side, 
Spread  through  the  land,  till,  such  a  pother 

Such  party  squabbles,  far  and  wide, 
12 


266  SATIRICAL. 

Never  in  history's  page  had  been 
Recorded,  as  were  then  between 
The  Whippers  and  Non-whippers  seen. 
Till,  things  arriving  at  a  state 

Which  gave  some  fears  of  revolution, 
The  patriot  lords'  advice,  though  late, 

Was  put  at  last  in  execution. 
The  Parliament  of  Thibet  met — 

The  little  Lama  call'd  before  it, 
Did,  then  and  there,  his  whipping  get, 
And  (as  the  Nursery  Gazette 
Assures  us)  like  a  hero  bore  it. 

And  though  'mong  Thibet  Tories,  some 
Lament  that  Royal  Martyrdom 
(Please  to  observe,  the  letter  D 
In  this  last  word  's  pronounced  like  B), 
Yet  to  the  example  of  that  Prince 

So  much  is  Thibet's  land  a  debtor, 
'Tis  said  her  little  Lamas  since 

Have  all  behaved  themselves  much  better. 


ETERNAL  LONDON. 

THOMAS   MOORE. 

AND  is  there  then  no  earthly  place 

Where  we  can  rest,  in  dream  Elysian, 
Without  some  cursed,  round  English  face, 

Popping  up  near,  to  break  the  vision ! 

'Mid  northern  lakes,  'mid  southern  vines, 

Unholy  cits  we  're  doom'd  to  meet ; 
Nor  highest  Alps  nor  Appenines 

Are  sacred  from  Threadneedle-street. 

If  up  the  Simplon's  path  we  wind, 
Fancying  we  leave  this  world  behind, 
Such  pleasant  sounds  salute  one's  ear 
As — "  Baddish  news  from  'Change,  my  dear — 


SATIRICAL.  267 

"  The  Funds — (phew,  curse  this  ugly  hill !) 
Are  lowering  fast — (what !  higher  still '!) — 
And — (zooks,  we  're  mounting  up  to  Heaven !) — 
Will  soon  be  down  to  sixty-seven." 


Go  where  we  may — rest  where  we  will, 

Eternal  London  haunts  us  still. 

The  trash  of  Almack's  or  Fleet-Ditch — 

And  scarce  a  pin's  head  difference  which — 

Mixes,  though  even  to  Greece  we  run, 

With  every  rill  from  Helicon ! 

And  if  this  rage  for  traveling  lasts, 

If  Cockneys  of  all  sets  and  castes, 

Old  maidens,  aldermen,  and  squires, 

Will  leave  their  puddings  and  coal  fires, 

To  gape  at  things  in  foreign  lands 

No  soul  among  them  understands — 

If  Blues  desert  their  coteries, 

To  show  off  'mong  the  Wahabees — 

If  neither  sex  nor  age  controls, 
Nor  fear  of  Mamelukes  forbids 

Young  ladies,  with  pink  parasols, 
To  glide  among  the  Pyramids — 

Why,  then,  farewell  all  hope  to  find 

A  spot  that 's  free  from  London-kind  ! 

Who  knows,  if  to  the  West  we  roam, 

But  we  may  find  some  Slue  "  at  home" 
Among  the  Blades  of  Carolina — 

Or,  flying  to  the  eastward,  see 

Some  Mrs.  HOPKINS,  taking  tea 
And  toast  upon  the  Wall  of  China. 


ON    FACTOTUM    NED. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

HERE  lies  Factotum  Ned  at  last : 

Long  as  he  breath'd  the  vital  air, 
Nothing  throughout  all  Europe  pass'd 

In  which  he  had  n't  some  small  share. 


268  SATIRICAL. 

Whoe'er  was  in,  whoe'er  was  out — 
Whatever  statesmen  did  or  said — 

If  not  exactly  brought  about, 

Was  all,  at  least,  contrived  by  Ned. 

With  NAP  if  Russia  went  to  war, 
'T  was  owing,  under  Providence, 

To  certain  hints  Ned  gave  the  Czar — 
(Vide  his  pamphlet — price  six  pence). 

If  France  was  beat  at  Waterloo — 

As  all,  but  Frenchmen,  think  she  was — 

To  Ned,  as  Wellington  well  knew, 
Was  owing  half  that  day's  applause. 

Then  for  his  news — no  envoy's  bag 

E'er  pass'd  so  many  secrets  through  it — 

Scarcely  a  telegraph  could  wag 

Its  wooden  finger,  but  Ned  knew  it 

Such  tales  he  had  of  foreign  plots, 
With  foreign  names  one's  ear  to  buzz  in — 

From  Russia  chefs  and  ofs  in  lots, 
From  Poland  owskis  by  the  dozen. 

When  GEORGE,  alarm'd  for  England's  creed, 
Turn'd  out  the  last  Whig  ministry, 

And  men  ask'd — who  advised  the  deed  ? 
Ned  modestly  confess' d  't  was  he. 

For  though,  by  some  unlucky  miss. 

He  had  not  downright  seen  the  King. 
He  sent  such  hints  through  Viscount  This, 

To  Marquis  That,  as  clench'd  the  thing. 

The  same  it  was  in  science,  arts, 

The  drama,  books,  MS.  and  printed — 

Kean  learn' d  from  Ned  his  cleverest  parts. 
And  Scott's  last  work  by  him  was  hinted. 

Childe  Harold  in  the  proofs  he  read, 

And,  here  and  there,  infused  some  soul  in 't — 

Nay,  Davy's  lamp,  till  seen  by  Ned, 

Had — odd  enough — a  dangerous  hole  in  't. 


SATIRICAL.  269 

'T  was  thus,  all  doing  and  all  knowing, 

Wit,  statesman,  boxer,  chemist,  singer, 
Whatever  was  the  best  pie  going, 

In  that  Ned — trust  him — had  his  finger. 


LETTERS 

FROM  MISS  BIDDY  FUDGE  AT  PARIS  TO  MISS  DOROTHY IN  IRELAND. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

WHAT  a  time  since  I  wrote ! — I  'm  a  sad  naughty  girl — 
Though,  like  a  tee-totum,  I  'm  all  in  a  twirl, 
Yet  even  (as  you  wittily  say)  a  tee-totum 
Between  all  its  twirls  gives  a  letter  to  note  'em. 
But,  Lord,  such  a  place !  and  then,  Dolly,  my  dresses, 
My  gowns,  so  divine  ! — there 's  no  language  expresses, 
Except  just  the  two  words  "  superbe,"  "  magnifique," 
The  trimmings  of  that  which  I  had  home  last  week ! 
It  is  caU'd — I  forget — a  la — something  which  sounded 
Like  alicampane — but,  in  truth,  I  'm  confounded 
And  bother'd,  my  dear,  'twixt  that  troublesome  boy's 
(Bob's)  cookery  language,  and  Madame  Le  Roi's : 
What  with  fillets  of  roses,  and  fillets  of  veal, 
Things  garni  with  lace,  and  things  garni  with  eel, 
One's  hair,  and  one's  cutlets  both  en  papittote, 
And  a  thousand  more  things  I  shall  ne'er  have  by  rote, 
I  can  scarce  tell  the  difference,  at  least  as  to  phrase, 
Between  beef  a  la  Psychb  and  curls  a  la  braise. — 
But,  in  short,  dear,  I  'm  trick' d  out  quite  a  la  Fran<;wise, 
With  my  bonnet — so  beautiful ! — high  up  and  poking, 
Like  tilings  that  are  put  to  keep  chimneys  from  smoking. 

Where  shall  I  begin  with  the  endless  delights 
Of  this  Eden  of  milliners,  monkeys,  and  sights — 
This  dear  busy  place,  where  there 's  nothing  transacting, 
But  dressing  and  dinnermg,  dancing  and  acting  ? 

Imprimis,  the  Opera — mercy,  my  ears ! 

Brother  Bobby's  remark  t'  other  night  was  a  true  one ; 
"  This  must  be  the  music,"  said  he,  "  of  the  spears, 

For  I  'm  curst  if  each  note  of  it  does  n't  run  through  one  I" 


270  SATIRICAL. 

Pa  says  (and  you  know,  love,  his  book  's  to  make  out), 
'T  was  the  Jacobins  brought  every  mischief  about ; 
That  this  passion  for  roaring  has  come  in  of  late, 
Since  the  rabble  all  tried  for  a  voice  in  the  State. 
What  a  frightful  idea,  one's  mind  to  o'erwhelm  ! 

What  a  chorus,  dear  Dolly,  would  soon  be  let  loose  of  it ! 
If,  when  of  age,  every  man  in  the  realm 

Had  a  voice  like  old  Lais,  and  chose  to  make  use  of  it ! 
No — never  was  known  in  this  riotous  sphere 
Such  a  breach  of  the  peace  as  their  singing,  my  dear  ; 
So  bad,  too,  you  'd  swear  that  the  god  of  both  arts, 

Of  Music  and  Physic,  had  taken  a  frolic 
For  setting  a  loud  fit  of  asthma  in  parts, 

And  composing  a  fine  rumbling  base  to  a  cholic  ! 

But,  the  dancing — ahparlez  moi,  Dolly,  de  ga — 
There,  indeed,  is  a  treat  that  charms  all  but  Papa. 
Such  beauty — such  grace — oh  ye  sylphs  of  romance  ! 

Fly,  fly  to  Titania,  and  ask  her  if  she  has 
One  light-footed  nymph  in  her  train,  that  can  dance 

Like  divine  Bigottini  and  sweet  Fanny  Bias ! 
Fanny  Bias  in  Flora — dear  creature ! — you  'd  swear, 
When  her  delicate  feet  in  the  dance  twinkle  round, 
That  her  steps  are  of  light,  that  her  home  is  the  air, 

And  she  only  par  complaisance  touches  the  ground. 
And  when  Bigottini  in  Psyche  dishevels 

Her  black  flowing  hair,  and  by  demons  is  driven, 
Oh !  who  does  not  envy  those  rude  little  devils, 

That  hold  her,  and  hug  her,  and  keep  her  from  heaven  ? 
Then,  the  music — so  softly  its  cadences  die, 
So  divinely — oh,  Dolly  !  between  you  and  I, 
It  's  as  well  for  my  peace  that  there 's  nobody  nigh 
To  make  love  to  me  then — you've  a  soul,  and  can  judge 
What  a  crisis  't  would  be  for  your  friend  Biddy  Fudge  ! 

The  next  place  (which  Bobby  has  near  lost  his  heart  in), 
They  call  it  the  Play-house — I  think — of  Saint  Martin : 
Quite  charming — and  very  religious — what  folly 
To  say  that  the  French  are  not  pious,  dear  Dolly, 
When  here  one  beholds,  so  correctly  and  rightly, 
The  Testament  tura'd  into  melo-drames  nightly : 


SATIRICAL.  271 

And,  doubtless,  so  fond  they  're  of  scriptural  facts, 

They  will  soon  get  the  Pentateuch  up  in  five  acts. 

Here  Daniel,  in  pantomime,  bids  bold  defiance 

To  Nebuchadnezzar  and  all  his  stuff' d  lions, 

While  pretty  young  Israelites  dance  round  the  Prophet, 

In  very  thin  clothing,  and  but  little  of  it ; — 

Here  Begrand,  who  shines  in  this  scriptural  path, 

As  the  lovely  Susanna,  without  even  a  relic 
Of  drapery  round  her,  comes  out  of  the  Bath 

In  a  manner,  that,  Bob  says,  is  quite  Eve-angelic  / 


But,  in  short,  dear,  't  would  take  me  a  month  to  recite 
AH  the  exquisite  places  we  're  at,  day  and  night  ; 
And,  besides,  ere  I  finish,  I  think  you  '11  be  glad 
Just  to  hear  one  delightful  adventure  I  '.ve  had. 

Last  night,  at  the  Beaujon,  a  place  where — I  doubt 
If  I  well  can  describe — there  are  cars  that  set  out 
From  a  lighted  pavilion,  high  up  in  the  air, 
And  rattle  you  down,  Doll — you  hardly  know  where. 
These  vehicles,  mind  me,  in  which  you  go  through 
This  delightfully  dangerous  journey,  hold  two. 
Some  cavalier  asks,  with  humility,  whether 

You  '11  venture  down  with  him — you  smile — 'tis  a  match  j 
In  an  instant  you  're  seated,  and  down  both  together 

G-o  thundering,  as  if  you  went  post  to  old  Scratch ; 
Well,  it  was  but  last  night,  as  I  stood  and  remark'd 
On  the  looks  and  odd  ways  of  the  girls  who  embark' d; 
The  impatience  of  some  for  the  perilous  flight, 
The  forc'd  giggle  of  others,  'twixt  pleasure  and  fright, 
That  there  came  up — imagine,  dear  Doll,  if  you  can — 
A  fine  sallow,  sublime,  sort  of  Werter-fac'd  man, 
With  mustaches  that  gave  (what  we  read  of  so  oft), 
The  dear  Corsair  expression,  half  savage,  half  soft, 
As  Hyaenas  in  love  may  be  fancied  to  look,  or 
A  something  between  Abelard  and  old  Blucher  I 
Up  he  came,  Doll,  to  me,  and  uncovering  his  head 
(Rather  bald,  but  so  warlike !)  in  bad  English  said, 
"  Ah !  my  dear — if  Ma'mselle  vil  be  so  very  good — 
Just  for  von  little  course" — though  I  scarce  understood 
What  he  wish'd  me  to  do,  I  said,  thank  him,  T  would. 


272  SATIBICAL. 

Off  we  set — and,  though  'faith,  dear,  I  hardly  knew  whether 

My  head  or  my  heels  were  the  uppermost  then, 
For  't  was  like  heaven  and  earth,  Dolly,  coming  together — 

Yet,  spite  of  the  danger,  we  dared  it  again. 
And  oh  I  as  I  gazed  on  the  features  and  air 

Of  the  man,  who  for  me  all  this  peril  defied, 
I  could  fancy  almost  he  and  I  were  a  pair 

Of  unhappy  young  lovers,  who  thus,  side  by  side, 
"Were  taking,  instead  of  rope,  pistol,  or  dagger,  a 
Desperate  dash  down  the  falls  of  Niagara  1 


This  achiev'd,  through  the  gardens  we  saunter'd  about^ 

Saw  the  fire-works,  exclaim'd  "  magnifique !"  at  each  cracker, 
And,  when  't  was  all  o'er,  the  dear  man  saw  us  out 

With  the  air,  I  iviU  say,  of  a  prince,  to  OUT  fiacre. 
Now,  hear  me — this  stranger — it  may  be  mere  folly — 
But  who  do  you  think  we  all  think  it  is,  Dolly  ? 
Why,  bless  you,  no  less  than  the  great  King  of  Prussia, 
Who 's  here  now  incog. — he,  who  made  such  a  fuss,  you 
Remember,  in  London,  with  Blucher  and  Platoff, 
When  Sal  was  near  kissing  old  Blucher's  cravat  off! 
Pa  says  he 's  come  here  to  look  after  his  money 
(Not  taking  things  now  as  he  used  under  Boney), 
Which  suits  with  our  friend,  for  Bob  saw  him,  he  swore, 
Looking  sharp  to  the  silver  received  at  the  door. 
Besides,  too,  they  say  that  his  grief  for  his  Queen 
(Which  was  plain  in  this  sweet  fellow's  face  to  be  seen) 
Requires  such  a  stimulant  dose  as  this  car  is, 
Used  three  times  a  day  with  young  ladies  in  Paris. 
Some  Doctor,  indeed,  has  declared  that  such  grief 

Should — unless  't  would  to  utter  despairing  its  folly  push — 
Fly  to  the  Beaujon,  and  there  seek  relief 

By  rattling,  as  Bob  says,  "  like  shot  through  a  holly-bush." 


I  must  now  bid  adieu — only  think,  Dolly,  think 

If  this  should  be  the  King — I  have  scarce  slept  a  wink 

With  imagining  how  it  will  sound  in  the  papers, 

And  how  all  the  Misses  my  good  luck  will  grudge, 
When  they  read  that  Count  Buppin,  to  drive  away  vapors, 

Has  gone  down  the  Beaujon  with  Miss  Biddy  Fudge. 


SATIRICAL.  273 

Nota  Bene. — Papa's  almost  certain  'tis  he — 
For  he  knows  the  L*git**ate  cut,  and  could  see, 
In  the  way  he  went  poising,  and  managed  to  tower 
So  erect  in  the  car,  the  true  Balance  of  Power. 


SECOND   LETTER. 

Well,  it  is  n't  the  King,  after  all,  my  dear  creature ! 

But  dorit  you  go  laugh,  now — there 's  nothing  to  quiz  in 't — 
For  grandeur  of  air  and  for  grimness  of  feature, 

He  might  be  a  King,  Doll,  though,  hang  him,  he  is  n't. 
At  first  I  felt  hurt,  for  I  wish'd  it,  I  own, 
If  for  no  other  cause  than  to  vex  Miss  MALONE — 
(The  great  heiress,  you  know,  of  Shandangan,  who 's  here, 
Showing  off  with  such  airs  and  a  real  Cashmere, 
While  mine's  but  a  paltry  old  rabbit-skin,  dear !) 
But  says  Pa,  after  deeply  considering  the  thing, 
"  I  am  just  as  well  pleased  it  should  not  be  the  King ; 
As  I  think  for  my  BIDDY,  so  gentilie  jolie, 

Whose  charms  may  their  price  in  an  honest  way  fetch ; 
That  a  Brandenburg — (what  is  a  Brandenburg,  DOLLY  ?) — 

Would  be,  after  all,  no  such  very  great  catch. 
If  the  R — G — T,  indeed — "  added  he,  looking  sly — 
(You  remember  that  comical  squint  of  his  eye) 
But  I  stopp'd  him — "  La,  Pa,  how  can  you  say  so, 
When  the  R — G — T  loves  none  but  old  women,  you  know !" 
Which  is  fact,  my  dear  Dolly — we,  girls  of  eighteen, 
And  so  slim — Lord,  he  'd  think  us  not  fit  to  be  seen  ; 
And  would  like  us  much  better  as  old — ay,  as  old 
As  that  Countess  of  Desmond,  of  whom  I  've  been  told 
That  she  lived  to  much  more  than  a  hundred  and  ten, 
And  was  kill'd  by  a  fall  from  a  cherry-tree  then ! 
What  a  frisky  old  girl !  but — to  come  to  my  lover, 

Who,  though  not  a  king,  is  a  hero  I  '11  swear — 
You  shall  hear  all  that's  happen'd  just  briefly  run  over, 

Since  that  happy  night,  when  we  whisk' d  through  the  air ! 

Let  me  see — 't  was  on  Saturday — yes,  Dolly,  yes — 
From  that  evening  I  date  the  first  dawn  of  my  bliss ; 
When  we  both  rattled  off  in  that  dear  little  carriage, 
Whose  journey,  Bob  says,  is  so  like  love  and  marriage, 
12* 


274  SATIRICAL. 

"  Beginning  gay,  desperate,  dashing  down-hilly; 

And  ending  as  dull  as  a  six-inside  Dilly !" 

Well,  scarcely  a  wink  did  I  sleep  the  night  through, 

And,  next  day,  having  scribbled  my  letter  to  you, 

With  a  heart  full  of  hope  this  sweet  fellow  to  meet, 

Set  out  with  Papa,  to  see  Louis  Dix-huit 

Make  his  bow  to  some  half-dozen  women  and  boys, 

Who  get  up  a  small  concert  of  shrill  Vive  k  Rois — 

And  how  vastly  genteeler,  my  dear,  even  this  is, 

Than  vulgar  Pall-Mall's  oratorio  of  hisses ! 

The  gardens  seem'd  full — so,  of  course,  we  walk'd  o'er  'em; 

'Mong  orange-trees,  clipp'd  into  town-bred  decorum, 

And  Daphnes,  and  vases,  and  many  a  statue 

There  staring,  with  not  even  a  stitch  on  them,  at  you  ! 

The  ponds,  too,  we  view'd — stood  awhile  on  the  brink 

To  contemplate  the  play  of  those  pretty  gold  fishes — 
"  Live  Bullion"  says  merciless  Bob,  "  which  I  think, 

Would,  if  coin'd,  with  a  little  mint  sauce,  be  delicious!" 

But  what,  Dolly,  what  is  the  gay  orange-grove, 

Or  gold  fishes,  to  her  that 's  in  search  of  her  love  ? 

In  vain  did  I  wildly  explore  every  chair 

Where  a  thing  like  a  man  was — no  lover  sat  there  ! 

In  vain  my  fond  eyes  did  I  eagerly  cast 

At  the  whiskers,  mustaches,  and  wigs  that  went  past, 

To  obtain,  if  I  could,  but  a  glance  at  that  curl, 

But  a  glimpse  of  those  whiskers,  as  sacred,  my  girl, 

As  the  lock  that,  Pa  says,  is  to  Mussulmen  given, 

For  the  angel  to  hold  by  that  "lugs  them  to  heaven !" 

Alas,  there  went  by  me  full  many  a  quiz, 

And* mustaches  in  plenty,  but  nothing  like  his ! 

Disappointed,  I  found  myself  sighing  out  "  well-a-day," 

Thought  of  the  words  of  T— M  M— RE'S  Irish  melody, 

Something  about  the  "  greeii  spot  of  delight," 

(Which  you  know,  Captain  Macintosh  sung  to  us  one  day  :) 
Ah,  Dolly !  my  "  spot"  was  that  Saturday  night, 

And  its  verdure,  how  fleeting,  had  wither'd  by  Sunday! 

We  dined  at  a  tavern — La,  what  do  I  say  ? 

If  Bob  was  to  know ! — a  Restaurateur  s,  dear ; 
Where  your properest  ladies  go  dine  every  day, 

And  drink  Burgundy  out  of  largo  tumblers,  like  beer. 


SATIRICAL.  275 

Fine  Bob  (for  he  'a  really  grown  super-fine) 

Condescended,  for  once,  to  make  one  of  the  party ; 
Of  course,  though  but  three,  we  had  dinner  for  nine, 

And,  in  spite  of  my  grief,  love,  I  own  I  ate  hearty ; 
Indeed,  Doll,  I  know  not  how  'tis,  but  in  grief, 
I  have  always  found  eating  a  wondrous  relief; 
And  Bob,  who 's  in  love,  said  he  felt  the  same  quite — 

"  My  sighs,"  said  he  "  ceased  with  the  first  glass  I  drank  you  ; 
The  lamb  made  me  tranquil,  the  puffs  made  me  light, 

And  now  that 's  all  o'er — why,  I  'm — pretty  well,  thank  you  1" 

To  my  great  annoyance,  we  sat  rather  late  ; 
For  Bobby  and  Pa  had  a  furious  debate 
About  singing  and  cookery — Bobby,  of  course, 
Standing  up  for  the  latter  Fine  Art  in  full  force ; 
And  Pa  saying,  "  Grod  only  knows  which  is  worst, 

The  French  singers  or  cooks,  but  I  wish  us  well  over  it — 
What  with  old  Lai's  and  Very,  I  'm  curst 

If  my  head  or  my  stomach  will  ever  recover  it !" 
'T  was  dark  when  we  got  to  the  Boulevards  to  stroll, 

And  in  vain  did  I  look  'mong  the  street  Macaronis, 
When  sudden  it  struck  me — last  hope  of  my  soul — 

That  some  angel  might  take  the  dear  man  to  Tortoni's  I 
We  enter' d — and  scarcely  had  Bob,  with  an  air, 

For  a  grappe  a  la  jardiniere  call'd  to  the  waiters, 
When,  oh !  Doll,  I  saw  him — my  hero  was  there 

(For  I  knew  his  white  small-clothes  and  brown   leather 

gaiters), 

A  group  of  fair  statues  from  Greece  smiling  o'er  him, 
And  lots  of  red  currant-juice  sparkling  before  him  ! 
Oh  Dolly,  these  heroes — what  creatures  they  are  I 

In  the  boudoir  the  same  as  hi  fields  full  of  slaughter ; 
As  cool  in  the  Beaujon's  precipitous  car 

As  when  safe  at  Tortoni's,  o'er  iced  currant- water ! 
•He  joined  us — imagine,  dear  creature  my  ecstacy — 
Join'd  by  the  man  I'd  have  broken  ten  necks  to  see ! 
Bob  wish'd  to  treat  him  with  punch  d  la  glace, 
But  the  sweet  fellow  swore  that  my  beautt,  my  grace, 
And  my  je-ne-sais-quoi  (then  his  whiskers  he  twirl' d) 
Were,  to  him,  "  on  de  top  of  all  ponch  in  de  vorld."- 
How  pretty ! — though  oft  (as,  of  course,  it  must  be) 
Both  his  French  and  his  English  are  Greek,  Doll,  to  me. 


276  SATIRICAL. 

But,  in  short,  I  felt  happy  as  ever  fond  heart  did: 
And,  happier  still,  when  't  was  fix'd,  ere  we  parted, 
That,  if  the  next  day  should  be  pastoral  weather, 
We  all  would  set  off  in  French  buggies,  together, 
To  see  Montmorency — that  place  which,  you  know, 
Is  so  famous  for  cherries  and  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 
His  card  then  he  gave  us — the  name,  rather  creased — 
But 't  was  Calicot — something — a  colonel,  at  least ! 
After  which — sure  there  never  was  hero  so  civil — he 
Saw  us  safe  home  to  our  door  in  Rue  Rivoli, 
Where  his  last  words,  as  at  parting,  he  threw 
A  soft  look  o'er  his  shoulders,  were — "  how  do  you  do  ?" 

But,  Lord — there  's  Papa  for  the  post — I  'm  so  vex'd — 

Montmorency  must  now,  love,  be  kept  for  my  next. 

That  dear  Sunday  night ! — I  was  charmingly  dress'd, 

And — so  providential — was  looking  my  best ; 

Such  a  sweet  muslin  gown,  with  a  flounce — and  my  frills, 

You  've  no  notion  how  rich — (though  Pa  has  by  the  bills)- 

And  you  'd  smile  had  you  seen,  when  we  sat  rather  near, 

Colonel  Calicot  eyeing  the  cambric,  my  dear. 

Then  the  flowers  in  iny  bonnet — but,  la,  it's  in  vain — 

So,  good  by,  my  sweet  Doll — I  shall  soon  write  again. 

B.    F. 

Nota  bena — our  love  to  all  neighbors  about — 
Your  papa  in  particular — how  is  his  gout  ? 

P.  S. — I  've  just  open'd  my  letter  to  say, 
In  your  next  you  must  tell  me  (now  do,  Dolly,  pray 
For  I  hate  to  ask  Bob,  he  's  so  ready  to  quiz) 
What  sort  of  a  thing,  dear,  a  Brandenburg  is. 


THIRD   LETTER. 

AT  last,  DOLLY — thanks  to  a  potent  emetic 
Which  BOBBY  and  Pa,  with  grimace  sympathetic, 
Have  swallowed  this  morning  to  balance  the  bliss 
Of  an  eel  matelote,  and  a  bisque  decrevisses — 
I  Ve  a  morning  at  home  to  myself,  and  sit  down 
To  describe  you  our  heavenly  trip  out  of  town. 


SATIRICAL.  277 

How  agog  you  must  be  for  this  letter,  my  dear ! 

Lady  JANE  in  the  novel  less  languish' d  to  hear 

If  that  elegant  cornet  she  met  at  Lord  NEVILLE'S 

Was  actually  dying  with  love  or — blue  devils. 

But  love,  DOLLY,  love  is  the  theme  /pursue ; 

With,  blue  devils,  thank  heaven,  I  've  nothing  to  do — 

Except,  indeed,  dear  Colonel  CALICOT  spies 

Any  imps  of  that  color  in  certain  blue  eyes, 

Which  he  stares  at  till  I,  DOLL,  at  his  do  the  same ; 

Then  he  simpers — I  blush — and  would  often  exclaim, 

If  I  knew  but  the  French  for  it,  "  Lord,  sir,  for  shame  !" 

Well,  the  morning  was  lovely — the  trees  in  full  dress 
For  the  happy  occasion — the  sunshine  express — 
Had  we  order'd  it  dear,  of  the  best  poet  going, 
It  scarce  could  be  furnish'd  more  golden  and  glowing. 
Though  late  when  we  started,  the  scent  of  the  air 
Was  like  GATTIE'S  rose-water,  and  bright  here  and  there 
On  the  grass  an  odd  dew-drop  was  glittering  yet, 
Like  my  aunt's  diamond  pin  on  her  green  tabinet ! 
And  the  birds  seemed  to  warble,  as  blest  on  the  boughs, 
As  if  each  a  plumed  CALICOT  had  for  her  spouse, 
And  the  grapes  were  all  blushing  and  kissing  in  rows, 
And — in  short,  need  I  tell  you,  wherever  one  goes 
With  the  creature  one  loves,  'tis  all  coukur  de  rose  ; 
And  ah,  I  shall  ne'er,  lived  I  ever  so  long,  see 
A  day  such  as  that  at  divine  Montmorency ! 

There  was  but  one  drawback — at  first  when  we  started, 

The  Colonel  and  I  were  inhumanly  parted  ; 

How  cruel — young  hearts  of  such  moments  to  rob ! 

He  went  in  Pa's  buggy,  and  I  went  with  BOB  : 

And,  I  own,  I  felt  spitefully  happy  to  know 

That  Papa  and  his  comrade  agreed  but  so-so. 

For  the  Colonel,  it  seems,  is  a  stickler  of  BONEY'S — 

Served  with  him,  of  course — nay,  I  'm  sure  they  were  cronies ; 

So  martial  his  features,  dear  DOLL,  you  can  trace 

Ulm,  Austerlitz,  Lodi,  as  plain  in  his  face 

As  you  do  on  that  pillar  of  glory  and  brass 

Which  the  poor  Due  de  B**m  must  hate  so  to  pass. 

It  appears,  too,  he  made — as  most  foreigners  do — 

About  English  affairs  an  odd  blunder  or  two. 


278  SATIRICAL. 

For  example — misled  by  the  names,  I  dare  say — 
He  confounded  JACK  CASTLES  with  Lord  CASTLEREAGH; 
And — such  a  mistake  as  no  mortal  hit  ever  on- 
Fancied  the  present  Lord  CAMDEN  the  clever  one  I 

But  politics  ne'er  were  the  sweet  fellow's  trade ; 
'T  was  for  war  and  the  ladies  my  Colonel  was  made. 
And,  oh,  had  you  heard,  as  together  we  walk'd     " 
Through  that  beautiful  forest,  how  sweetly  he  talk'd ; 
And  how  perfectly  well  he  appear'd,  DOLL,  to  know 
All  the  life  and  adventures  of  JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU  ! — 
"  'T  was  there,"  said  he — not  that  his  words  I  can  state — 
'T  was  a  gibberish  that  Cupid  alone  could  translate  ; — 
But  "  there,"  said  he  (pointing  where,  small  and  remote, 
The  dear  Hermitage  rose),  "  there  his  JULIE  he  wrote, 
Upon  paper  gilt-edged,  without  blot  or  erasure, 
Then  sanded  it  over  with  silver  and  azure, 
And — oh,  what  will  genius  and  fancy  not  do  ? — 
Tied  the  leaves  up  together  with  nompareille  blue  !" 
What  a  trait  of  Rousseau !  what  a  crowd  of  emotions 

From  sand  and  blue  ribbons  are  conjured  up  here ! 
Alas !  that  a  man  of  such  exquisite  notions, 

Should  send  his  poor  brats  to  the  Foundling,  my  dear  ! 

"  'T  was  here,  too,  perhaps,"  Colonel  CALICOT  said — 
As  down  the  small  garden  he  pensively  led — 
(Though  once  I  could  see  his  sublime  forehead  wrinkle 
With  rage  not  to  find  there  the  loved  periwinkle) — 
"  'T  was  here  he  received  from  the  fair  D'EPINAY, 
(Who  call'd  him  so  sweetly  her  Bear,  every  day), 
That  dear  flannel  petticoat,  pull'd  off  to  form 
A  waistcoat  to  keep  the  enthusiast  warm!" 

Such,  DOLL,  were  the  sweet  recollections  we  ponder'd, 
As,  full  of  romance,  through  that  valley  we  wander'd, 
The  flannel  (one's  train  of  ideas,  how  odd  it  is !) 
Led  us  to  talk  about  other  commodities, 
Cambric,  and  silk,  and  I  ne'er  shall  forget, 
For  the  sun  was  then  hastening  in  pomp  to  its  set, 
And  full  on  the  Colonel's  dark  whiskers  shone  down, 
When  he  ask'd  me,  with  eagerness — who  made  my  gown  ? 


SATIRICAL.  279 

The  question  confused  me — for,  DOLL,  you  must  know, 

And  I  ought  to  have  told  my  best  friend  long  ago, 

That,  by  Pa's  strict  command,  I  no  longer  employ 

That  enchanting  couturiere,  Madame  LE  Roi, 

But  am  forc'd,  dear,  to  have  VICTORINE,  who — deuce  take  her — 

It  seems  is,  at  present,  the  king's  mantua-maker — 

I  mean  of  his  party — and,  though  much  the  smartest, 

LE  Roi  is  condemned  as  a  rank  B*n*pa*t*st. 

Think,  DOLL,  how  confounded  I  look'd — so  well  knowing 
The  Colonel's  opinions — my  cheeks  were  quite  glowing ; 
I  stammer'd  out  something — nay,  even  half  named 
The  legitimate  semptress,  when,  loud,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Yes,  yes,  by  the  stiching  'tis  plain  to  be  seen 

It  was  made  by  that  B**rb*n**t  b h,  VICTORINE  !" 

What  a  word  for  a  hero,  but  heroes  will  err, 
And  I  thought,  dear,  I  'd  tell  you  things  just  as  they  were. 
Besides,  though  the  word  on  good  manners  intrench, 
I  assure  you,  'tis  not  half  so  shocking  in  French. 

But  this  cloud,  though  embarrassing,  soon  pass'd  away, 

And  the  bliss  altogether,  the  dreams  of  that  day, 

The  thoughts  that  arise  when  such  dear  fellows  woo  us — 

The  nothings  that  then,  love,  are  every  thing  to  us — 

That  quick  correspondence  of  glances  and  sighs, 

And  what  BOB  calls  the  "  Twopenny-Post  of  the  Eyes" — 

Ah  DOLL,  though  I  know  you  've  a  heart,  'tis  in  vain 

To  a  heart  so  unpracticed  these  tilings  to  explain. 

They  can  only  be  felt  in  their  fullness  divine 

By  her  who  has  wander'd,  at  evening's  decline, 

Through  a  valley  like  that,  with  a  Colonel  like  mine ! 

But  here  I  must  finish — for  BOB,  my  dear  DOLLY, 
Whom  physic,  I  find,  always  makes  melancholy, 
Is  seized  with  a  fancy  for  church-yard  reflections ; 
And  full  of  all  yesterday's  rich  recollections, 
Is  just  setting  off  for  Montmartre — "  for  there  is," 
Said  he,  looking  solemn,  "  the  tomb  of  the  YERYS  ! 
Long,  long  have  I  wish'd,  as  a  votary  true, 

O'er  the  grave  of  such  talents  to  utter  my  moans ; 
And  to-day,  as  my  stomach  is  not  in  good  cue 

For  the  flesh  of  the  VERYS — I'll  visit  their  bones!" 


280  SATIRICAL. 

He  insists  upon  my  going  with  him — how  teasing ! 

This  letter,  however,  dear  DOLLY,  shall  lie 
Unseal'd  in  my  drawer,  that  if  any  thing  pleasing 

Occurs  while  I  'm  out,  I  may  tell  you — Good-by. 

B.    F. 

Four  o'clock. 

Oh,  DOLLY,  dear  DOLLY,  I  'm  ruin'd  forever — 
I  ne'er  shall  be  happy  again,  DOLLY,  never ; 
To  think  of  the  wretch  ! — what  a  victim  was  I ! 
'Tis  too  much  to  endure — I  shall  die,  I  shall  die  ! 
My  brain 's  in  a  fever — my  pulses  beat  quick — 
I  shall  die,  or,  at  least,  be  exceedingly  sick ! 
Oh  what  do  you  think  ?  after  all  my  romancing, 
My  visions  of  glory,  my  sighing,  my  glancing, 
This  Colonel — I  scarce  can  commit  it  to  paper — 
This  Colonel 's  no  more  than  a  vile  linen-draper !  I 
'Tis  true  as  I  live — I  had  coax'd  brother  BOB  so 
(You  '11  hardly  make  out  what  I  'm  writing,  I  sob  so), 
For  some  little  gift  on  my  birth-day — September 
The  thirtieth,  dear,  I  'm  eighteen,  you  remember — 
That  BOB  to  a  shop  kindly  order'd  the  coach 

(Ah,  little  thought  I  who  the  shopman  would  prove), 
To  bespeak  me  a  few  of  those  mouchoirs  de  poche, 

Which,  in  happier  hours,  I  have  sighed  for,  my  love — 
(The  most  beautiful  things — two  Napoleons  the  price — 
And  one  's  name  in  the  corner  embroidered  so  nice  !) 
Well,  with  heart  full  of  pleasure,  I  enter'd  the  shop, 
But — ye  gods,  what  a  phantom ! — I  thought  I  should  drop— 
There  he  stood,  my  dear  DOLLY — no  room  for  a  doubt — 

There,  behind  the  vile  counter,  these  eyes  saw  him  stand, 
With  a  piece  of  French  cambric  before  him  roll'd  out, 

And  that  horrid  yard-measure  upraised  in  his  hand ! 
Oh — Papa  all  along  knew  the  secret,  'tis  clear — 
'T  was  a  a  shopman  he  meant  by  a  "  Brandenburg,"  dear ! 
The  man,  whom  I  fondly  had  fancied  a  King, 

And  when  that  too  delightful  illusion  was  past, 
As  a  hero  had  worship'd — vile  treacherous  tiling — 

To  turn  out  but  a  low  linen-draper  at  last ! 
My  head  swam  round — the  wretch  smil'd,  I  believe, 
But  his  smiling,  alas  1  could  no  longer  deceive — 
I  fell  back  on  BOB — my  whole  heart  seem'd  to  wither, 
And,  pale  as  a  ghost,  I  was  carried  back  hither ! 


SATIRICAL.  ^8 

I  only  remember  that  BOB,  as  I  caught  him, 

With  cruel  facetiousness  said — "  Curse  the  Kiddy, 

A  staunch  Revolutionist  always  I  've  thought  him, 
But  now  I  find  out  he  's  a  Counter  one,  BIDDY  !" 

Only  think,  my  dear  creature,  if  this  should  be  known 
To  that  saucy  satirical  tiling,  Miss  MALONE  ! 
What  a  story  't  will  be  at  Shandangen  forever ! 

What  laughs  and  what  quizzing  she  '11  have  with  the  men  1 
It  will  spread  through  the  country — and  never,  oh  never 

Can  BIDDY  be  seen  at  Kilrandy  again  I 

Farewell — I  shall  do  something  desperate,  I  fear — 
And  ah  !  if  my  fate  ever  reaches  your  ear, 
One  tear  of  compassion  my  DOLL  will  not  grudge 
To  her  poor — broken-hearted — young  friend, 

BIDDY  FUDGE. 

Nota  Bene. — I  'm  sure  you  will  hear  with  delight, 
That  we  're  going,  all  three,  to  see  BRUNET  to-night 
A  laugh  will  revive  me — and  kind  Mr.  Cox 
(Do  you  know  him  ?)  has  got  us  the  Governor's  box. 


THE    LITERARY    LADY. 

RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN. 

WHAT  motley  cares  Gorilla's  mind  perplex, 

Whom  maids  and  metaphors  conspire  to  vex ! 

In  studious  dishabille  behold  her  sit, 

A  lettered  gossip  and  a  household  wit ; 

At  once  invoking,  though  for  different  views, 

Her  gods,  her  cook,  her  milliner  and  muse. 

Round  her  strewed  room  a  frippery  chaos  lies, 

A  checkered  wreck  of  notable  and  wise, 

Bills,  books,  caps,  couplets,  combs,  a  varied  mass, 

Oppress  the  toilet  and  obscure  the  glass ; 

Unfinished  here  an  epigram  is  laid, 

And  there  a  mantua-maker's  bill  unpaid. 

There  new-born  plays  foretaste  the  town's  applause, 

There  dormant  patterns  pine  for  future  gauze. 


282  SATIRICAL. 

A  moral  essay  now  is  all  her  care, 

A  satire  next,  and  then  a  bill  of  fare. 

A  scene  she  now  projects,  and  now  a  dish ; 

Here  Act  the  First,  and  here,  Remove  with  Fish. 

Now,  while  this  eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolls, 

That  soberly  casts  up  a  bill  for  coals  ; 

Black  pins  and  daggers  in  one  leaf  she  sticks, 

And  tears,  and  threads,  and  bowls,  and  thimbles  mix. 


NETLEY  ABBEY.* 

R.    HARRIS   BARHAM 

I  SAW  thee,  Netley,  as  the  sun 
Across  the  western  wave 

Was  sinking  slow, 

And  a  golden  glow 
To  thy  roofless  towers  he  gave ; 

And  the  ivy  sheen 

With  its  mantle  of  green 
That  wrapt  thy  walls  around, 

Shone  lovelily  bright 

In  that  glorious  light, 
And  I  felt 't  was  holy  ground. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  ancient  time— 
The  days  of  thy  monks  of  old, — 
When  to  matin,  and  vesper,  and  compline  chime, 

The  loud  Hosanna  roll'd, 

And,  thy  courts  and  "  long-drawn  aisles"  among, 
Swell'd  the  full  tide  of  sacred  song. 

And  then  a  vision  pass'd 

Across"  my  mental  eye ; 
And  silver  shrines,  and  shaven  crowns, 
And  delicate  ladies,  in  bombazeen  gowns, 

And  long  white  vails,  went  by ; 
Stiff,  and  staid,  and  solemn,  and  sad, — 
—But  one,  methought,  wink'd  at  the  Gardener-lad  ! 

*  A  noted  ruin,  much  frequented  by  plensure-partieB. 


SATIRICAL.  283 

Then  came  tne  Abbot,  with  miter  and  ring, 
And  pastoral  staff,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
And  a  monk  with  a  book,  and  a  monk  with  a  bell, 

And  "  dear  linen  souls," 

In  clean  linen  stoles, 

Swinging  their  censers,  and  making  a  smell. — 
And  see  where  the  Choir-master  walks  in  the  rear 

With  front  severe 

And  brow  austere, 

Now  and  then  pinching  a  little  boy's  ear 
When  he  chants  the  responses  too  late  or  too  soon, 
Or  his  Do,  Re,  Mi,  Fa,  Sol,  La 's  not  quite  in  tune. 

(Then  you  know 

They'd  a  "movable  Do" 

Not  a  fix'd  one  as  now — and  of  course  never  knew 
How  to  set  up  a  musical  Hullah-baloo.) 
It  was,  in  sooth,  a  comely  sight, 
And  I  welcom'd  the  vision  with  pure  delight 


But  then  "  a  change  came  o'er" 
My  spirit — a  change  of  fear — 
That  gorgeous  scene  I  beheld  no  more, 
But  deep  beneath  the  basement  floor 

A  dungeon  dark  and  drear ! 
And  there  was  an  ugly  hole  in  the  wall — 
For  an  oven  too  big, — for  a  cellar  too  small ! 
And  mortar  and  bricks 
All  ready  to  fix, 

And  I  said,  "  Here 's  a  Nun  has  been  playing  some  tricks  !- 
That  horrible  hole ! — it  seems  to  say, 
'  I  'm  a  grave  that  gapes  for  a  living  prey  !'  " 
And  my  heart  grew  sick,  and  my  brow  grew  sad — 
And  I  thought  of  that  wink  at  the  Gardener-lad. 
Ah  me !  ah  me  ! — 'tis  sad  to  think 
That  maiden's  eye,  which  was  made  to  wink, 
Should  here  be  compelled  to  grow  blear  and  blink, 
Or  be'  closed  for  aye 
In  this  kind  of  way, 
Shut  out  forever  from  wholesome  day, 
Wall'd  up  in  a  hole  with  never  a  chink, 
No  light, — no  air, — no  victuals, — no  drink  ! — 


2S4  SATIRICAL. 

And  that  maiden's  lip, 
Which  was  made  to  sip, 
Should  here  grow  wither'd  and  dry  as  a  chip  I 
— That  wandering  glance  and  furtive  kiss, 
Exceedingly  naughty,  and  wrong,  I  wis, 
Should  yet  be  considered  so  much  amiss 
As  to  call  for  a  sentence  severe  as  this ! — 
And  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  heard  with  a  sigh 
The  poor  lone  victim's  stifled  cry, 
"  Well,  I  can't  understand 
How  any  man's  hand 

Could  wall  up  that  hole  in  a  Christian  land  I 
Why,  a  Mussulman  Turk 
Would  recoil  from  the  work, 

And  though,  when  his  ladies  run  after  the  fellows,  he 
Stands  not  on  trifles,  if  madden' d  by  jealousy, 
Its  objects,  I'm  sure,  would  declare,  could  they  speak, 
In  their  Georgian,  Circassian,  or  Turkish,  or  Greek, 
*  When  all 's  said  and  done,  far  better  it  was  for  us, 
Tied  back  to  back 
And  sewn  up  in  a  sack, 

To  be  pitch'd  neck-and-heels  from  a  boat  in  the  BosphorusP 
— Oh !  a  saint 't  would  vex 
To  think  that  the  sex 

Should  be  no  better  treated  than  Combe's  double  X I 
Sure  some  one  might  run  to  the  Abbess,  and  tell  her 
A  much  better  method  of  stocking  her  cellar." 


If  ever  on  polluted  walls 
Heaven's  right  arm  in  vengeance  falls, — 
If  e'er  its  justice  wraps  in  flame 
The  black  abodes  of  sin  and  shame, 
That  justice,  in  its  own  good  time, 
Shall  visit,  for  so  foul  a  crime, 
Ope  desolation's  floodgate  wide, 
And  blast  thee,  Netley,  in  thy  pride  I 

Lo  where  it  comes ! — the  tempest  lowers,  - 
It  bursts  on  thy  devoted  towers ; 
Ruthless  Tudor's  bloated  form 
Rides  on  the  blast,  and  guides  the  storm ; 


SAT-IEICAL.  285 

I  hear  the  sacrilegious  cry, 

"  Down  with  the  nests,  and  the  rooks  will  fly  I" 

Down !  down  they  come — a  fearful  fall — 
Arch,  and  pillar,  and  roof-tree,  and  all, 
Stained  pane,  and  sculptured  stone, 
There  they  lie  on  the  greensward  strown — 
Moldering  walls  remain  alone  ! 

Shaven  crown 

Bornbazeen  gown, 
Miter,  and  crozier,  and  all  are  flown ! 

And  yet,  fair  Netley,  as  I  gaze 

Upon  that  gray  and  moldering  wall, 
The  glories  of  thy  palmy  days 

Its  very  stones  recall ! — 
They  "come  like  shadows,  so  depart" — 
I  see  thee  as  thou  wert — and  art — 

Sublime  in  ruin ! — grand  in  woe  ! 

Lone  refuge  of  the  owl  and  bat ; 
No  voice  awakes  thine  echoes  now ! 

No  sound — good  gracious ! — what  was  that  ? 
Was  it  the  moan, 
The  parting  groan 
Of  her  who  died  forlorn  and  alone, 
Embedded  in  mortar,  and  bricks,  and  stone  ? — 
Full  and  clear 
On  my  listening  ear 

It  comes — again — near  and  more  near — 
Why  zooks !  it 's  the  popping  of  GTinger  Beer  1 
— I  rush  to  the  door — 
I  tread  the  floor, 

By  abbots  and  abbesses  trodden  before, 
In  the  good  old  chivalric  days  of  yore, 
And  what  see  I  there  ? — 
In  a  rush-bottom'd  chair 
A  hag  surrounded  by  crockery-ware, 
Vending,  in  cups,  to  the  credulous  throng 
A  nasty  decoction  miscall'd  Souchong, — 
And  a  squeaking  fiddle  and  "  wry-necked  fife" 
Are  screeching  away,  for  the  life ! — for  the  life  ! 
Danced  to  by  "  All  the  World  and  his  Wife." 


286  SATIRICAL. 

Tag,  Rag,  and  Bobtail,  are  capering  there, 

Worse  scene,  I  ween,  than  Bartlemy  Fair ! — 

Two  or  three  chimney-sweeps,  two  or  three  clowns, 

Playing  at  "  pitch  and  toss,"  sport  their  "  Browns," 

Two  or  three  damsels,  frank  and  free, 

Are  ogling,  and  smiling,  and  sipping  Bohea. 

Parties  below,  and  parties  above, 

Some  making  tea,  and  some  making  love. 

Then  the  "  toot — toot — toot" 

Of  that  vile  demi-flute, — 

The  detestable  din 

Of  that  cracked  violin, 

And  the  odors  of  "  Stout,"  and  tobacco,  and  gin ! 
" — Dear  me !"  I  exclaim'd,  "  what  a  place  to  be  in!" 
And  I  said  to  the  person  who  drove  my  "  shay" 
(A  very  intelligent  man,  by  the  way), 
"  This,  all  things  considered,  is  rather  too  gay ! 
It  don't  suit  my  humor, — so  take  me  away ! 
Dancing !  and  drinking ! — cigar  and  song ! 
If  not  profanation,  it's  l  coming  it  strong,' 
And  I  really  consider  it  all  very  wrong. — 
— Pray,  to  whom  does  this  property  now  belong  ?" — 
He  paus'd,  and  said, 
Scratching  his  head, 

"  Why  I  really  do  think  he 's  a  little  to  blame, 
But  I  can't  say  I  knows  the  gentleman's  name !" 

"Well— well!"  quoth  I, 

As  I  heaved  a  sigh, 

And  a  tear-drop  fell  from  my  twinkling  eye, 
"  My  vastly  good  man,  as  I  scarcely  doubt 
That  some  day  or  other  you  '11  find  it  out, 

Should  he  come  hi  your  way, 

Or  ride  in  your  '  shay' 

(As  perhaps  he  may), 
'  Be  so  good  as  to  say 

That  a  Visitor  whom  you  drove  over  one  day, 
Was  exceedingly  angry,  and  very  much  scandalized, 
Finding  these  beautiful  ruins  so  Vandalized, 
And  thus  of  then*  owner  to  speak  began, 
As  he  ordered  you  home  in  haste, 

NO    DOUBT   HE  'S  A  VERY    RESPECTABLE    MAN, 

But — '  I  can't  say  much  for  his  taste  /'  " 


SATIRICAL.  287 

FAMILY  POETRY. 

R.  HARRIS   BARHAM. 

ZOOKS  !  I  must  woo  the  Muse  to-day, 

Though  line  before  I  never  wrote ! 
"  On  what  occasion  ?"  do  you  say  ? 

OUR  DICK  HAS  GOT  A  LONG-TAIL'D  COAT  !  1 

Not  a  coatee,  which  soldiers  wear 

Button'd  up  high  about  the  throat, 
But  easy,  flowing,  debonair, 

In  short  a  civil  long-tail' d  coat. 

A  smarter  you  '11  not  find  in  town, 

Cut  by  Nugee,  that  snip  of  note ; 
A  very  quiet  olive  brown 

's  the  color  of  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat. 

Gay  jackets  clothe  the  stately  Pole, 

The  proud  Hungarian,  and  the  Croat, 
Yet  Esterhazy,  on  the  whole 

Looks  best  when  in  a  long-tail'd  coat. 

Lord  Byron  most  admired,  we  know, 

The  Albanian  dress,  or  Suliote, 
But  then  he  died  some  years  ago, 

And  never  saw  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat ; 

Or  past  all  doubt  the  poet's  theme 

Had  never  been  the  "  White  Capote," 
Had  he  once  view'd  in  Fancy's  dream, 

The  glories  of  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat ! 

We  also  know  on  Highland  kilt 

Poor  dear  Glengarry  used  to  dote, 
And  had  esteem' d  it  actual  guilt 

I'  ",the  Gael"  to  wear  a  long-tail'd  coat  I 

No  wonder  't  would  his  eyes  annoy, 
Monkbarns  himself  would  never  quote 

"  Sir  Robert  Sibbald,"  "  Gordon,"  "  Ray," 
Or  "  Stukely"  for  a  long-tail'd  coat. 


288  SATIRICAL. 

Jackets  may  do  to  ride  or  race, 
Or  row  in,  when  one  's  in  a  boat, 

But  in  the  boudoir,  sure,  for  grace 

There 's  nothing  like  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat 

Of  course  in  climbing  up  a  tree, 

On  terra-firma,  or  afloat, 
To  mount  the  giddy  topmast,  he 

Would  doff  awhile  his  long-tail'd  coat 

What  makes  you  simper,  then,  and  sneer  ? 

From  out  your  own  eye  pull  the  mote ! 
A  pretty  thing  for  you  to  jeer — 

Have  n't  you,  too,  got  a  long-tail'd  coat  ? 

Oh !  " Dick's  scarce  old  enough,"  you  mean, 
Why,  though  too  young  to  give  a  note, 

Or  make  a  will,  yet,  sure  Fifteen 
's  a  ripe  age  for  a  long-tail'd  coat 

What !  would  you  have  him  sport  a  chin 
Like  Colonel  Stanhope,  or  that  goat 

0'  Gorman  Mahon,  ere  begin 
To  figure  in  a  long-tail'd  coat  ? 

Suppose  he  goes  to  France — can  he 

Sit  down  at  any  table  d'  hute, 
With  any  sort  of  decency, 

Unless  he  's  got  a  long-tail'd  coat  ? 

Why  Louis  Philippe,  Royal  Cit, 
There  soon  may  be  a  sa?is  culotte, 

And  Nugent's  self  may  then  admit 
The  advantage  of  a  long-tail'd  coat. 

Things  are  not  now  as  when,  of  yore, 

In  tower  encircled  by  a  moat, 
The  lion-hearted  chieftain  wore 

A  corselet  for  a  long-tail'd  coat ; 

Then  ample  mail  his  form  embraced, 

Not  like  a  weasel  or  a  stoat, 
11  Cribb'd  and  confined"  about  the  waist, 

And  pinch'd  in  like  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat. 


SATIRICAL.  289 

With  beamy  spear  or  biting  ax, 

To  right  and  left  he  thrust  and  smote — 

Ah  I  what  a  change  !  no  sinewy  thwacks 
Fall  from  a  modern  long-tail'd  coat  I 

More  changes  still !  now,  well-a-day  I 

A  few  cant  phrases  learned  by  rote, 
Each  beardless  booby  spouts  away, 

A  Solon,  in  a  long-tail'd  coat ! 

Prates  of  the  "  March  of  Intellect"- 

"  The  Schoolmaster."     A  Patriots 
So  noble,  who  could  e'er  suspect 

Had  just  put  on  a  long-tail'd  coat  ? 

Alack  !  alack !  that  every  thick- 

Skull'd  lad  must  find  an  antidote 
For  England's  woes,  because,  like  Dick, 

He  has  put  on  a  long-tail'd  coat ! 

But  lo !  my  rhyme 's  begun  to  fail, 

Nor  can  I  longer  time  devote  ; 
Thus  rhyme  and  time  cut  short  the  tale, 

The  long  tale  of  Dick's  long-tail'd  coat 


THE    SUNDAY    QUESTION. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

"  It  is  the  king's  highway  that  we  are  in,  and  in  this  way  it  is  that  thou  hast 
placed  the  lions."— BUNYAN. 

WHAT  !  shut  the  Gardens !  lock  the  latticed  gate  I 
Refuse  the'shilling  and  the  fellow's  ticket ! 

And  hang  a  wooden  notice  up  to  state, 
On  Sundays  no  admittance  at  this  wicket ! 

The  Birds,  the  Beasts,  and  all  the  Reptile  race, 
Denied  to  friends  and  visitors  till  Monday  ! 

Now,  really,  this  appears  the  common  case 
Of  putting  too  much  Sabbath  into  Sunday — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grrundy  ? 
13 


290  SATIRICAL. 

The  Gardens — so  unlike  the  ones  we  dub 
Of  Tea,  wherein  the  artisan  carouses — 

Mere  shrubberies  without  one  drop  of  shrub — 

Wherefore  should  they  be  closed  like  public-houses  ? 

No  ale  is  vended  at  the  wild  Deer's  Head — 
No  rum — nor  gin— not  even  of  a  Monday — 

The  Lion  is  not  carved — or  gilt — or  red, 

And  does  not  send  out  porter  of  a  Sunday — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

The  Bear  denied !  the  Leopard  under  locks ! 

As  if  his  spots  would  give  contagious  fevers ! 
The  Beaver  close  as  hat  within  its  box ; 

So  different  from  other  Sunday  beavers ! 
The  Birds  invisible — the  Gnaw- way  Rats  - 

The  Seal  hermetically  sealed  till  Monday - 
The  Monkey  tribe — the  Family  of  Cats— 

We  visit  other  families  on  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy 

What  is  the  brute  profanity  that  shocks 

The  super-sensitively  serious  feeling  ? 
The  Kangaroo — is  he  not  orthodox 

To  bend  his  legs,  the  way  he  does,  in  kneeling  ? 
Was  strict  Sir  Andrew,  in  his  Sabbath  coat, 

Struck  all  a-heap  to  see  a  Coati  mundif 
Or  did  the  Kentish  Plumtree  faint  to  note 

The  Pelicans  presenting  bills  on  Sunday  ?— 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  feature  has  repulsed  the  serious  set  ? 

What  error  in  the  bestial  birth  or  breeding, 
To  put  their  tender  fancies  on  the  fret  ? 

One  tiling  is  plain — it  is  not  in  the  feeding ! 
Some  stiffish  people  tliink  that  smoking  joints 

Are  carnal  sins  'twixt  Saturday  and  Monday — 
But  then  the  beasts  are  pious  on  these  points, 

For  they  all  eat  cold  dinners  on  a  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  change  comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
As  if  transmuted  by  some  spell  organic  ? 


SATIRICAL.  291 

Turns  fell  Hyena  of  the  Ghoulish  race  ? 

The  Snake,  pro  tempore,  the  true  Satanic  ? 
Do  Irish  minds — (whose  theory  allows 

That  now  and  then  Good  Friday  falls  on  Monday) — 
Do  Irish  minds  suppose  that  Indian  Cows 

Are  wicked  Bulls  of  Bashan  on  a  Sunday  ? — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

There  are  some  moody  Fellows,  not  a  few, 

Who,  turned  by  nature  with  a  gloomy  bias, 
Renounce  black  devils  to  adopt  the  blue, 

And  think  when  they  are  dismal  they  are  pious  : 
Is 't  possible  that  Pug's  untimely  fun 

Has  sent  the  brutes  to  Coventry  till  Monday  ? — 
Or  perhaps  some  animal,  no  serious  one, 

Was  overheard  in  laughter  on  a  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  dire  offense  have  serious  Fellows  found 

To  raise  their  spleen  against  the  Regent's  spinney? 
Were  charitable  boxes  handed  round, 

And  would  not  Guinea  Pigs  subscribe  their  guinea  ? 
Perchance,  the  Demoiselle  refused  to  molt 

The  feathers  in  her  head — at  least  till  Monday ; 
Or  did  the  Elephant,  unseemly,  bolt 

A  tract  presented  to  be  read  on  Sunday  ? — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

At  whom  did  Leo  struggle  to  get  loose  ? 

Who  mourns  through  Monkey-tricks  his  damaged  cloth 
ing? 
Who  has  been  hissed  by  the  Canadian  Goose  ? 

On  whom  did  Llama  spit  in  utter  loathing  ? 
Some  Smithfield  Saint  did  jealous  feelings  t«»ll 

To  keep  the  Puma  out  of  sight  till  Monday, 
Because  he  preyed  extempore  as  well 

As  certain  wild  Itinerants  on  Sunday— 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

To  me  it  seems  that  in  the  oddest  way 
(Begging  the  pardon  of  each  rigid  Socms) 


292  SATIRICAL. 

Our  would-be  Keepers  of  the  Sabbath-day 
Are  like  the  Keepers  of  the  brutes  ferocious — 

As  soon  the  Tiger  might  expect  to  stalk 

About  the  grounds  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 

As  any  harmless  man  to  take  a  walk, 

If  Saints  could  clap  him  in  a  cage  on  Sunday — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

In  spite  of  all  hypocrisy  can  spin, 
As  surely  as  I  am  a  Christian  scion, 

I  cannot  think  it  is  a  mortal  sin — 

(Unless  he 's  loose) — to  look  upon  a  lion. 

I  really  think  that  one  may  go,  perchance, 
To  see  a  bear,  as  guiltless  as  on  Monday — 

(That  is,  provided  that  he  did  not  dance) — 
Bruin 's  no  worse  than  bakin'  on  a  Sunday — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

In  spite  of  all  the  fanatic  compiles, 
I  can  not  think  the  day  a  bit  diviner, 

Because  no  children,  with  forestalling  smiles, 
Throng,  happy,  to  the  gates  of  Eden  Minor — 

It  is  not  plain,  to  my  poor  faith  at  least, 

That  what  we  christen  "  Natural"  on  Monday, 

The  wondrous  history  of  Bird  and  Beast, 
Can  be  unnatural  because  it's  Sunday — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  G-rundy  ? 

Whereon  is  sinful  fantasy  to  work  ? 

The  Dove,  the  winged  Columbus  of  man's  haven  ? 
The  tender  Love-Bird— or  the  filial  Stork  ? 

The  punctual  Crane — the  providential  Raven  ? 
The  Pelican  whose  bosom  feeds  her  young  ? 

Nay,  must  we  cut  from  Saturday  till  Monday 
That  feathered  marvel  with  a  human  tongue, 

Because  she  does  not  preach  upon  a  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

The  busy  Beaver — that  sagacious  beast ! 

The  Sheep  that  owned  an  Oriental  Shepherd — 
That  Desert-ship,  the  Camel  of  the  East, 

The  horned  Rhinoceros — the  spotted  Leopard — 


SATIRICAL.  293 

The  Creatures  of  the  Great  Creator's  hand 
Are  surely  sights  for  better  days  than  Monday— 

The  Elephant,  although  he  wears  no  band, 
Has  he  no  sermon  in  his  trunk  for  Sunday  ? — 
But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

What  harm  if  men  who  burn  the  midnight-oil, 

Weary  of  frame,  and  worn  and  wan  of  feature, 
Seek  once  a  week  their  spirits  to  assoil, 

And  snatch  a  glimpse  of  "  Animated  Nature  ?" 
Better  it  were  if,  in  his  best  of  suits, 

The  artisan,  who  goes  to  work  on  Monday, 
Should  spend  a  leisure-hour  among  the  brutes, 

Than  make  a  beast  of  his  own  self  on  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Why,  zounds !  what  raised  so  Protestant  a  fuss 

(Omit  the  zounds !  for  which  I  make  apology) 
But  that  the  Papists,  like  some  Fellows,  thus 

Had  somehow  mixed  up  Dens  with  then-  Theology  ? 
Is  Brahma's  Bull — a  Hindoo  god  at  home — 

A  Papal  Bull  to  be  tied  up  till  Monday  ? — 
Or  Leo,  like  his  namesake,  Pope  of  Rome, 

That  there  is  such  a  dread  of  them  on  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 

Spirit  of  Kant !  have  we  not  had  enough 

To  make  Religion  sad,  and  sour,  and  snubbish, 
But  Saints  Zoological  must  cant  their  stuff, 

As  vessels  cant  their  ballast — rattling  rubbish  ! 
Once  let  the  sect,  triumphant  to  their  text, 

Shut  Nero  up  from  Saturday  till  Monday, 
And  sure  as  fate  they  will  deny  us  next 

To  see  the  Dandelions  on  a  Sunday — 

But  what  is  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Grundy  ? 


294  SATIRICAL. 

ODE    TO    RAE    WILSON,    ESQUIRE* 

THOMAS   HOOD 

'*  Close,  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
And  weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice ; 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise !" — COLEBTDGE. 

"It's  very  hard  them  kind  of  men 
Won't  let  a  body  be."— OLD  BALLAD. 

A  WANDERER,  Wilson,  from  my  native  land, 
Remote,  0  Rae,  from  godliness  and  thee, 
"Where  rolls  between  us  the  eternal  sea, 
Besides  some  furlongs  of  a  foreign  sand — 
Beyond  the  broadest  Scotch  of  London  Wall ; 
Beyond  the  loudest  Saint  that  has  a  call ; 
Across  the  wavy  waste  between  us  stretched, 
A  friendly  missive  warns  me  of  a  stricture, 
Wherein  my  likeness  you  have  darkly  etched, 
And  though  I  have  not  seen  the  shadow  sketched, 
Thus  I  remark  prophetic  on  the  picture. 

I  guess  the  features : — in  a  line  to  paint 

Their  moral  ugliness,  I  'm  not  a  saint. 

Not  one  of  those  self-constituted  saints, 

Quacks — not  physicians — in  the  cure  of  souls, 

Censors  who  sniff  out  moral  taints, 

And  call  the  devil  over  his  own  coals — 

Those  pseudo  Privy  Councillors  of  God, 

Who  write  down  judgments  with  a  pen  hard-nibbed : 

Ushers  of  Beelzebub's  Black  Rod, 
Commending  sinners  not  to  ice  thick-ribbed, 
But  endless  flames,  to  scorch  them  like  flax — 
Yet  sure  of  heaven  themselves,  as  if  they  'd  cribbed 
The  impression  of  St.  Peter's  keys  in  wax ! 

Of  such  a  character  no  single  trace 
Exists,  I  know,  in  my  fictitious  face  ; 
There  wants  a  certain  cast  about  the  eye ; 

•  Who  had,  in  one  of  his  books,  characterized  some  of  Hood's  verses  as  "  pro- 
faneness  and  ribaldry." 


SATIRICAL.  295 

A  certain  lifting  of  the  nose's  tip  ; 

A  certain  curling  of  the  nether  lip, 

In  scorn  of  all  that  is,  beneath  the  sky  ; 

In  brief,  it  is  an  aspect  deleterious, 

A  face  decidedly  not  serious, 

A  face  profane,  that  would  not  do  at  all 

To  make  a  face  at  Exeter  Hall  — 

That  Hall  where  bigots  rant,  and  cant,  and  pray, 

And  laud  each  other  face  to  face, 

Till  every  farthing-candle  ray 

Conceives  itself  a  great  gas-light  of  grace  ! 


!  —  be  the  graceless  lineaments  confest  ! 
I  do  enjoy  this  bounteous  beauteous  earth; 

And  dote  upon  a  jest 

"  Within  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth  ;"  — 
No  solemn  sanctimonious  face  I  pull, 
Nor  think  I  'in  pious  when  I  'm  only  bilious  — 
Nor  study  in  my  sanctum  supercilious 
To  frame  a  Sabbath  Bill  or  forge  a  Bull. 
I  pray  for  grace  —  repent  each  sinful  act  — 
Peruse,  but  underneath  the  rose,  my  Bible  ; 
And  love  my  neighbor,  far  too  well,  in  fact, 
To  call  and  twit  him  with  a  godly  tract 
That  's  turned  by  application  to  a  libel. 
My  heart  ferments  not  with  the  bigot's  leaven, 
All  creeds  I  view  with  toleration  thorough, 
And  have  a  horror  of  regarding  heaven 

As  any  body's  rotten  borough. 

What  else  ?     No  part  I  take  in  party  fray, 

With  tropes  from  Billingsgate's  slang-whanging  Tartars, 

I  fear  no  Pope  —  and  let  great  Ernest  play 

At  Fox  and  Gloose  with  Fox's  Martyrs  ! 

I  own  I  laugh  at  over-righteous  men, 

I  own  I  shake  my  sides  at  ranters, 

And  treat  sham  Abr'am  saints  with  wicked  banters, 

I  even  own,  that  there  are  times  —  but  then 

It  's  when  I  Ve  got  my  wine  —  I  say  d  -  canters  ! 

1  Ve  no  ambition  to  enact  the  spy 
On  fellow-souls,  a  spiritual  Pry  — 


296  SATIRICAL. 

'Tis  said  that  people  ought  to  guard  their  noses 
Who  thrust  them  into  matters  none  of  theirs : 
And,  though  no  delicacy  discomposes 
Your  saint,  yet  I  consider  faith  and  prayers 
Among  the  privatest  of  men's  affairs. 

I  do  not  hash  the  Gospel  in  my  books, 
And  thus  upon  the  public  mind  intrude  it, 
As  if  I  thought,  like  Otaheitan  cooks, 
No  food  was  fit  to  eat  till  I  had  chewed  it. 

On  Bible  stilts  I  don't  affect  to  stalk ; 
Nor  lard  with  Scripture  my  familiar  talk — 

For  man  may  pious  texts  repeat, 
And  yet  religion  have  no  inward  seat ; 
'Tis  not  so  plain  as  the  old  Hill  of  Tlowth, 
A  man  has  got  his  belly  full  of  meat 
Because  he  talks  with  victuals  in  his  mouth  ! 

Mere  verbiage — it  is  not  worth  a  carrot ! 
Why,  Socrates  or  Plato — where  'a  the  odds  ? — 
Once  taught  a  Jay  to  supplicate  the  gods, 
And  made  a  Polly- theist  of  a  Parrot! 

A  mere  professor,  spite  of  all  his  cant,  is 
Not  a  whit  better  than  a  Mantis — 
An  insect,  of  what  clime  I  can't  determine, 
That  lifts  its  paws  most  parson-like,  and  thence, 
By  simple  savages — through  sheer  pretense — 
Is  reckoned  quite  a  saint  among  the  vermin. 
But  where 's  the  reverence,  or  where  the  nous, 
To  ride  on  one's  religion  through  the  lobby, 

Whether  as  stalking-horse  or  hobby, 
To  show  its  pious  paces  to  "  the  house." 

I  honestly  confess  that  I  would  hinder 
The  Scottish  member's  legislative  rigs, 

That  spiritual  Pindar, 

Who  looks  on  erring  souls  as  straying  pigs, 
That  must  be  lashed  by  law,  wherever  found, 
And  driven  to  church  as  to  the  parish  pound. 


SATIRICAL. 

I  do  confess,  without  reserve  or  wheedle, 
I  view  that  groveling  idea  as  one 
Worthy  some  parish  clerk's  ambitious  son, 
A  charity-boy  who  longs  to  be  a  beadle. 
On  such  a  vital  topic  sure  'tis  odd 
How  much  a  man  can  differ  from  his  neighbor ; 
One  wishes  worship  freely  given  to  God, 
Another  wants  to  make  it  statute-labor — 
The  broad  distinction  in  a  line  to  draw, 
As  means  to  lead  us  to  the  skies  above, 
You  say — Sir  Andrew  and  his  love  of  law, 
And  I — the  Saviour  with  his  law  of  love. 

Spontaneously  to  God  should  tend  the  soul, 

Like  the  magnetic  needle  to  the  Pole ; 

But  what  were  that  intrinsic  virtue  worth, 

Suppose  some  fellow  with  more  zeal  than  knowledge, 

Fresh  from  St.  Andrew's  college, 
Should  nail  the  conscious  needle  to  the  north  ? 
I  do  confess  that  I  abhor  and  shrink 
From  schemes,  with  a  religious  willy-nilly, 
That  frown  upon  St.  Giles'  sins,  but  blink 
The  peccadilloes  of  all  Piccadilly — 
My  soul  revolts  at  such  bare  hypocrisy, 
And  will  not,  dare  not,  fancy  in  accord 
The  Lord  of  hosts  with  an  exclusive  lord 
Of  this  world's  aristocracy. 
It  will  not  own  a  nation  so  unholy, 
As  thinking  that  the  rich  by  easy  trips 
May  go  to  heaven,  whereas  the  poor  and  lowly 
Must  work  their  passage  as  they  do  in  ships. 

One  place  there  is — beneath  the  burial-sod, 
Where  all  mankind  are  equalized  by  death ; 
Another  place  there  is — the  Fane  of  God, 
Where  all  are  equal  who  draw  living  breath ; — 
Juggle  who  will  elsewhere  with  his  own  soul, 
Playing  the  Judas  with  a  temporal  dole — 
He  who  can  come  beneath  that  awful  cope, 
In  the  dread  presence  of  a  Maker  just, 
Who  metes  to  every  pinch  of  human  dust 
One  even  measure  of  immortal  hope — 
13* 


298  SATIRICAL. 

He  who  can  stand  within  that  holy  door, 
With  soul  unbowed  by  that  pure  spirit-level, 
And  frame  unequal  laws  for  rich  and  poor, — 
Might  sit  for  Hell,  and  represent  the  Devil! 

Such  are  the  solemn  sentiments,  0  Rae, 

In  your  last  journey-work,  perchance,  you  ravage, 

Seeming,  but  in  more  courtly  terms,  to  say 

I  'm  but  a  heedless,  creedless,  godless,  savage ; 

A  very  Guy,  deserving  fire  and  faggots, — 

A  scoffer,  always  on  the  grin, 
And  sadly  given  to  the  mortal- sin 
Of  liking  Mawworms  less  than  merry  maggots ! 

The  humble  records  of  my  life  to  search, 

I  have  not  "herded  with  mere  pagan  beasts  : 

But  sometimes  I  have  "  sat  at  good  men's  feasts," 

And  I  have  been  "  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church." 

Dear  bells !  how  sweet  the  sound  of  village  bells 

When  on  the  undulating  air  they  swim  ! 

Now  loud  as  welcomes !  faint,  now,  as  farewells ! 

And  trembling  all  about  the  breezy  dells, 

As  fluttered  by  the  wings  of  Cherubim. 

Meanwhile  the  bees  are  chanting  a  low  hymn  j 

And  lost  to  sight  the  ecstatic  lark  above 

Sings,  like  a  soul  beatified,  of  love, 

With,  now  and  then,  the  coo  of  the  wild  pigeon  : — 

0  pagans,  heathens,  infidels,  and  doubters! 

If  such  sweet  sounds  can't  woo  you  to  religion, 

Will  the  harsh  voices  of  church  cads  and  touters  ? 

A  man  may  cry  Church !  Church  1  at  every  word, 
With  no  more  piety  than  other  people — 
A  daw's  not  reckoned  a  religious  bird 
Because  it  keeps  a-cawing  from  a  steeple  ; 
The  Temple  is  a  good,  a  holy  place, 
But  quacking  only  gives  it  a,n  ill  savor  ; 
While  saintly  mountebanks  the  porch  disgrace, 
And  bring  religion's  self  into  disfavor ! 

Behold  yon  servitor  of  God  and  Mammon, 
Who,  binding  up  his  Bible  with  his  ledger, 


SATIRICAL.  299 

Blends  Gospel  texts  with  trading  gammon, 
A  black-leg  saint,  a  spiritual  hedger, 
Who  backs  his  rigid  Sabbath,  so  to  speak, 
Against  the  wicked  remnant  of  the  week, 
A  saving  bet  against  his  sinful  bias — 
'^Rogue  that  I  am,"  he  whispers  to  himself, 
"  I  lie — I  cheat — do  any  thing  for  pelf, 
But  who  on  earth  can  say  I  am  not  pious  1" 

In  proof  how  over-righteousness  re-acts, 

Accept  an  anecdote  well  based  on  facts ; 

On  Sunday  morning — (at  the  day  don't  fret) — 

In  riding  with  a  friend  to  Ponder's  End 

Outside  the  stage,  we  happened  to  commend 

A  certain  mansion  that  we  saw  To  Let. 

"  Ay,"  cried  our  coachman,  with  our  talk  to  grapple, 

"  You  're  right !  no  house  along  the  road  comes  nigh  it ! 

'T  was  built  by  the  same  man  as  built  yon  chapel, 

And  master  wanted  once  to  buy  it, — 
But  t'  other  driv'  the  bargain  much  too  hard, — 

He  axed  sure-??/  a  sum  prodigious ! 
But  being  so  particular  religious, 
Why,  that  you  see,  put  master  on  his  guard  !" 

Church  is  "  a  little  heaven  below, 

I  have  been  there  and  still  would  go," — 
Yet  I  am  none  of  those  who  think  it  odd 

A  man  can  pray  unbidden  from  the  cassock, 

And,  passing  by  the  customary  hassock 
Kneel  down  remote  upon  the  simple  sod, 
And  sue  in  forma  pauperis  to  God. 

As  for  the  rest, — intolerant  to  none, 
Whatever  shape  the  pious  rite  may  bear, 
Even  the  poor  Pagan's  homage  to  the  sun 
I  would  not  harshly  scorn,  lest  even  there 
I  spurned  some  elements  of  Christian  prayer — 
An  aim,  though  erring,  at  a  "  world  ayont" — 
Acknowledgment  of  good — of  man's  futility, 
A  sense  of  need,  and  weakness,  and  indeed 
That  very  thing  so  many  Christians  want- 
Humility. 


300  SATIRICAL. 

Such,  unto  Papists,  Jews  or  Turbaned  Turks, 
Such  is  my  spirit — (I  don't  mean  my  wraith !) 
Such,  may  it  please  you,  is  my  humble  faith ; 
I  know,  full  well,  you  do  not  like  my  works  I 

I  have  not  sought,  'tis  true,  the  Holy  Land, 
As  full  of  texts  as  Cuddie  Headrigg's  mother, 

The  Bible  in  one  hand, 

And  my  own  common-place-book  in  the  other — 
But  you  have  been  to  Palestine — alas ! 
Some  minds  improve  by  travel — others,  rather, 

Resemble  copper  wire  or  brass, 
Which  gets  the  narrower  by  going  further ! 

"Worthless  are  all  such  pilgrimages — very  ! 
If  Palmers  at  the  Holy  Tomb  contrive 
The  humans  heats  and  rancor  to  revive 
That  at  the  Sepulcher  they  ought  to  bury. 
A  sorry  sight  it  is  to  rest  the  eye  on, 
To  see  a  Christian  creature  graze  at  Sion, 
Then  homeward,  of  the  saintly  pasture  full, 
Rush  bellowing,  and  breathing  fire  and  smoke, 
At  crippled  Papistry  to  butt  and  poke, 
Exactly  as  a  skittish  Scottish  bull 
Haunts  an  old  woman  in  a  scarlet  cloak. 

Why  leave  a  serious,  moral,  pious  home, 
Scotland,  renowned  for  sanctity  of  old, 
Far  distant  Catholics  to  rate  and  scold 
For — doing  as  the  Romans  do  at  Rome  ? 
With  such  a  bristling  spirit  wherefore  quit 
The  Land  of  Cakes  for  any  land  of  wafers, 
About  the  graceless  images  to  Hit, 
And  buzz  and  chafe  importunate  as  chafers, 
Longing  to  carve  the  carvers  to  Scotch  collops  ? — 
People  who  hold  such  absolute  opinions 
Should  stay  at  home  in  Protestant  dominions, 
Not  travel  like  male  Mrs.  Trollopes. 

Gifted  with  noble  tendency  to  climb, 
Yet  weak  at  the  same  time, 


SATIRICAL.  301 

Faith  is  a  kind  of  parasitic  plant, 

That  grasps  the  nearest  stem  with  tendril  rings ; 

And  as  the  climate  and  the  soil  may  grant, 

So  is  the  sort  of  tree  to  which  it  clings. 

Consider,  then,  before,  like  Hurlothrumbo, 

You  aim  your  club  at  any  creed  on  earth, 

That,  by  the  simple  accident  of  birth, 

You  might  have  been  High  Priest  to  Mungo  Jumbo. 

For  me — through  heathen  ignorance  perchance, 

Not  having  knelt  in  Palestine, — I  feel 

None  of  that  grimnish  excess  of  zeal, 

Some  travelers  would  blaze  with  here  in  France. 

Dolls  I  can  see  in  Virgin-like  array, 

Nor  for  a  scuffle  with  the  idols  hanker 

Like  crazy  Quixotte  at  the  puppet's  play, 

If  their  "  offense  be  rank,"  should  mine  be  rancor  "? 

Mild  light,  and  by  degrees,  should  be  the  plan 
To  cure  the  dark  and  erring  mind ; 
But  who  would  rush  at  a  benighted  man, 
And  give  him  two  black  eyes  for  being  blind  ? 

Suppose  the  tender  but  luxuriant  hop 
Around  a  cankered  stem  should  twine, 
What  Kentish  boor  would  tear  away  the  prop 
So  roughly  as  to  wound,  nay,  kill  the  bine  ? 

The  images,  'tis  true,  are  strangely  dressed, 
With  gauds  and  toys  extremely  out  of  season ; 
The  carving  nothing  of  the  very  best, 
The  whole  repugnant  to  the  eye  of  Reason, 
Shocking  to  Taste,  and  to  Fine  Arts  a  treason — 
Yet  ne'er  o'erlook  in  bigotry  of  sect 
One  truly  Catholic,  one  common  form, 

At  which  unchecked 
All  Christian  hearts  may  kindle  or  keep  warm. 

Say,  was  it  to  my  spirit's  gain  or  loss 
One  bright  and  balmy  morning,  as  I  went 
From  Liege's  lovely  environs  to  Ghent, 
If  hard  by  the  wayside  I  found  a  croas, 


302  SATIRICAL. 

That  made  me  breathe  a  prayer  upon  the  spot — 

While  Nature  of  herself,  as  if  to  trace 

The  emblem's  use,  had  trailed  around  its  base 

The  blue  significant  Forget-Me-Not  ? 

Me  thought,  the  claims  of  Charity  to  urge 

More  forcibly  along  with  Faith  and  Hope, 

The  pious  choice  had  pitched  upon  the  verge 

Of  a  delicious  slope, 

Giving  the  eye  much  variegated  scope  ! — 
"  Look  round,"  it  whispered,  "  on  that  prospect  rare, 
Those  vales  so  verdant,  and  those  hills  so  blue  ; 
Enjoy  the  sunny  world,  so  fresh,  and  fair, 
But" — (how  the  simple  legend  pierced  me  through  !) 

"  PRIEZ  POUR  LES  MALHEURECJX." 

With  sweet  kind  natures,  as  in  honeyed  cells, 

Religion  lives  and  feels  herself  at  home ; 

But  only  on  a  formal  visit  dwells 

Where  wasps  instead  of  bees  have  formed  the  comb 

Shun  pride,  0  Rae  ! — whatever  sort  beside 
You  take  in  lieu,  shun  spiritual  pride  ! 
A  pride  there  is  of  rank — a  pride  of  birth, 
A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride — in  short,  there  be  on  earth 
A  host  of  prides,  some  better  and  some  worse  ; 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint, 
The  proudest  swells  a  self-elected  Saint. 

To  picture  that  cold  pride  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock  in  a  poultry-yard. 
Behold  him  in  conceited  circles  sail, 
Strutting  and  dancing,  and  now  planted  stiff, 
In  all  his  pomp  of  pageantiy,  as  if 
He  felt  "  the  eyes  of  Europe"  on  his  tail ! 
As  for  the  humble  breed  retained  by  man, 
He  scorns  the  whole  domestic  clan — 

He  bows,  he  bridles, 

He  wheels,  he  sidles, 
As  last,  with  stately  dodgings  in  a  corner, 
He  pens  a  simple  russet  hen,  to  scorn  her 
Full  in  the  blaze  of  his  resplendent  fan  I 


SATIEICAL.  303 

u  Look  here,"  he  cries  (to  give  him  words), 

"  Thou  feathered  clay — thou  scum  of  birds !" 
Flirting  the  rustling  plumage  in  her  eyes — 

"  Look  here,  thou  yile  predestined  sinner, 

Doomed  to  be  roasted  for  a  dinner, 
Behold  these  lovely  variegated  dyes  1 
These  are  the  rainbow  colors  of  the  skies, 
That  heaven  has  shed  upon  me  con  amore — 
A  Bird  of  Paradise  ? — a  pretty  story  1 
/  am  that  Saintly  Fowl,  thou  paltry  chick ! 

Look  at  my  crown  of  glory  ! 
Thou  dingy,  dirty,  dabbled,  draggled  jill !" 
And  off  goes  Partlett,  wriggling  from  a  kick, 
With  bleeding  scalp  laid  open  by  his  bill ! 

That  little  simile  exactly  paints 
How  sinners  are  despised  by  saints. 
By  saints ! — the  Hypocrites  that  ope  heaven's  door 
Obsequious  to  the  sinful  man  of  riches — 
But  put  the  wicked,  naked,  bare-legged  poor, 
In  parish  stocks,  instead  of  breeches. 

The  Saints  ? — the  Bigots  that  in  public  spout, 
Spread  phosphorus  of  zeal  on  scraps  of  fustian, 
And  go  like  walking  "  Lucifers"  about — 
Mere  living  bundles  of  combustion. 

The  Saints ! — the  aping  Fanatics  that  talk 
All  cant  and  rant  and  rhapsodies  high  flown — 

That  bid  you  balk 

A  Sunday  walk, 
And  shun  God's  work  as  you  should  shun  your  own. 

The  Saints ! — the  Formalists,  the  extra  pious, 
Who  think  the  mortal  husk  can  save  the  soul, 
By  trundling,  with  a  mere  mechanic  bias, 
To  church,  just  like  a  lignum- vitae  bowl ! 

The  Saints ! — the  Pharisees,  whose  beadle  stands 

Beside  a  stern  coercive  kirk, 

A  piece  of  human  mason-work, 
Calling  all  sermons  contrabands, 
In  that  great  Temple  that 's  not  made  with  hands  1 


804  SATIRICAL. 

Thrice  blessed,  rather,  is  the  man  with  whom 
The  gracious  prodigality  of  nature, 
The  balm,  the  bliss,  the  beauty,  and  the  bloom, 
The  bounteous  providence  in  every  feature, 
Eecall  the  good  Creator  to  his  creature, 
Making  all  earth  a  fane,  all  heaven  its  dome  ! 
To  his  tuned  spirit  the  wild  heather-bells 

Ring  Sabbath  knells ; 
The  jubilate  of  the  -soaring  lark 

Is  chant  of  clerk ; 

For  Choir,  the  thrush  and  the  gregarious  linnet ; 
The  sod  's  a  cushion  for  his  pious  want ; 
And,  consecrated  by  the  heaven  within  it, 
The  sky-blue  pool,  a  font. 
Each  cloud-capped  mountain  is  a  holy  altar ; 

An  organ  breathes  in  every  grove  ; 

And  the  full  heart 's  a  Psalter, 
Rich  in  deep  hymns  of  gratitude  and  love  ! 

Sufficiently  by  stern  necessitarians 

Poor  Nature,  with  her  face  begrimmed  by  dust, 

Is  stoked,  coked,  smoked,  and  almost  choked  :  but  must 

Religion  have  its  own  Utilitarians, 

Labeled  with  evangelical  phylacteries, 

To  make  the  road  to  heaven  a  railway  trust, 

And  churches — that 's  the  naked  fact — mere  factories  ? 

0  !  simply  open  wide  the  temple  door, 
And  let  the  solemn,  swelling  organ  greet, 

With  Voluntaries  meet, 
The  willing  advent  of  the  rich  and  poor ! 
And  while  to  God  the  loud  Hosannas  soar, 
With  rich  vibrations  from  the  vocal  throng — 
From  quiet  shades  that  to  the  woods  belong, 

And  brooks  with  music  of  their  own, 
Voices  may  come  to  swell  the  choral  song 
With  notes  of  praise  they  learned  in  musings  lone. 

How  strange  it  is,  while  on  all  vital  questions, 
That  occupy  the  House  and  public  mind, 
We  always  meet  with  some  humane  suggestions 
Of  gentle  measures  of  a  healing  kind, 


SATIRICAL.  305 

Instead  of  harsh  severity  and  vigor, 
The  saint  alone  his  preference  retains 
For  bills  of  penalties  and  pains, 
And  marks  his  narrow  code  with  legal  rigor  ! 
Why  shun,  as  worthless  of  affiliation, 
What  men  of  all  political  persuasion 
Extol — and  even  use  upon  occasion — 
That  Christian  principle,  conciliation  ? 
But  possibly  the  men  who  make  such  fuss 
With  Sunday  pippins  and  old  Trots  infirm, 
Attach  some  other  meaning  to  the  term, 
As  thus : 

One  market  morning,  in  my  usual  rambles, 
Passing  along  Whitechapel's  ancient  shambles, 
Where  meat  was  hung  in  many  a  joint  and  quarter, 
I  had  to  halt  a  while,  like  other  folks, 

To  let  a  killing  butcher  coax 
A  score  of  lambs  and  fatted  sheep  to  slaughter. 
A  sturdy  man  he  looked  to  fell  an  ox, 
Bull-fronted,  ruddy,  with  a  formal  streak 
Of  well-greased  hair  down  either  cheek, 
As  if  he  dee-dashed-dee'd  some  other  flocks 
Besides  those  woolly-headed  stubborn  blocks 
That  stood  before  him,  in  vexatious  huddle — 
Poor  little  lambs,  with  bleating  wethers  grouped, 
While,  now  and  then,  a  thirsty  creature  stooped 
And  meekly  snuffed,  but  did  not  taste  the  puddle. 

Fierce  barked  the  dog,  and  many  a  blow  was  dealt, 
That  loin,  and  chump,  and  scrag  and  saddle  felt, 
Yet  still,  that  fatal  step  they  ah1  declined  it — 
And  shunned  the  tainted  door  as  if  they  smelt 
Onions,  mint-sauce,  and  lemon-juice  behind  it. 
At  last  there  came  a  pause  of  brutal  force ; 

The  cur  was  silent,  for  his  jaws  were  full 

Of  tangled  locks  of  tarry  wool ; 
The  man  had  whooped  and  bellowed  till  dead  hoarse, 
The  time  was  ripe  for  mild  expostulation, 
And  thus  it  stammered  from  a  stander-by — 
"  Zounds ! — my  good  fellow — it  quite  makes  me — why 
It  really — my  dear  fellow — do  just  try 
Conciliation!" 


306  SATIRICAL. 

Stringing  liis  nerves  like  flint, 
The  sturdy  buteher  seized  upon  the  hint — 
At  least  he  seized  upon  the  foremost  wether — 
And  hugged  and  lugged  and  tugged  him  neck  and  crop 
Just  nolens  volens  through  the  open  shop — 
If  tails  come  off  he  did  n't  care  a  feather — 
Then  walking  to  the  door,  and  smiling  grim, 
He  rubbed  his  forehead  and  his  sleeve  together — 

"  There !— I  Ve  conciliated  him !" 

Again — good-humoredly  to  end  our  quarrel — 

(Good  humor  should  prevail !) 

I  '11  fit  you  with  a  tale 

Whereto  is  tied  a  moral. 
Once  on  a  time  a  certain  English  lass 
Was  seized  with  symptoms  of  such  deep  decline, 
Cough,  hectic  flushes,  every  evil  sign, 
That,  as  their  wont  is  at  such  desperate  pass, 
The  doctors  gave  her  over — to  an  ass. 

Accordingly,  the  grisly  Shade  to  bilk, 

Each  morn  the  patient  quaffed  a  frothy  bowl 

Of  assinine  new  milk, 
Robbing  a  shaggy  suckling  of  a  foal 
Which  got  proportionably  spare  and  skinny — 
Meanwhile  the  neighbors  cried  "  Poor  Mary  Ann  ! 
She  can't  get  over  it!  she  never  can  !" 
When  lo !  to  prove  each  prophet  was  a  ninny, 
The  one  that  died  was  the  poor  wet-nurse  Jenny. 

To  aggravate  the  case, 

There  were  but  two  grown  donkeys  in  the  place  ; 
And,  most  unluckily  for  Eve's  sick  daughter, 
The  other  long-eared  creature  was  a  male, 
Who  never  in  his  life  had  given  a  pail 

Of  milk,  or  even  chalk  and  water. 
No  matter:  at  the  usual  hour  of  eight 
Down  trots  a  donkey  to  the  wicket-gate, 
With  Mister  Simon  G-ubbins  on  his  back — 
"  Your  sarvant,  Miss — a  werry  spring-like  day — 
Bad  time  for  hasses,  though  1  good  lack  !  good  lack ! 
Jenny  be  dead,  Miss — but  I  'ze  brought  ye  Jack — 
He  doesn  't  give  no  milk — but  he  can  bray." 


SATIRICAL.  307 

So  runs  the  story, 

And,  in  vain  self-glory, 
Some  Saints  would  sneer  at  Gubbins  for  his  blindness ; 

But  what  the  better  are  their  pious  saws 

To  ailing  souls,  than  dry  hee-haws, 
Without  the  milk  of  human  kindness  ? 


DEATH'S    RAMBLE. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

ONE  day  the  dreary  old  King  of  Death 

Inclined  for  some  sport  with  the  carnal, 
So  he  tied  a  pack  of  darts  on  his  back, 

And  quietly  stole  from  his  charnel. 

His  head  was  bald  of  flesh  and  of  hair, 

His  body  was  lean  and  lank ; 
His  joints  at  each  stir  made  a  crack,  and  the  cur 

Took  a  gnaw,  by  the  way,  at  his  shank. 

And  what  did  he  do  with  his  deadly  darts, 

This  goblin  of  grisly  bone  ? 
He  dabbled  and  spilled  man's  blood,  and  he  killed 

Like  a  butcher  that  kills  his  own. 

The  first  he  slaughtered  it  made  him  laugh 

(For  the  man  was  a  coffin-maker), 
To  think  how  the  mutes,  and  men  in  black  suits, 

Would  mourn  for  an  undertaker. 

Death  saw  two  Quakers  sitting  at  church ; 

Quoth  he,  "  We  shaU  not  differ." 
And  he  let  them  alone,  like  figures  of  stone, 

For  he  could  not  make  them  stiffer. 

He  saw  two  duellists  going  to  fight, 

In  fear  they  could  not  smother ; 
And  he  shot  one  through  at  once — for  he  knew 

They  never  would  shoot  each  other. 


308  SATIRICAL. 

He  saw  a  watchman  fast  in  his  box, 

And  he  gave  a  snore  infernal ; 
Said  Death,  "  He  may  keep  his  breath,  for  his  sleep 

Can  never  be  more  eternal." 


He  met  a  coachman  driving  a  coach 

So  slow  that  his  fare  grew  sick ; 
But  he  let  him  stray  on  his  tedious  way, 

For  Death  only  wars  on  the  quick. 

Death  saw  a  tollman  taking  a  toll, 

In  the  spirit  of  his  fraternity ; 
But  he  knew  that  sort  of  man  would  extort, 

Though  summoned  to  all  eternity. 

He  found  an  author  writing  his  life, 

But  he  let  him  write  no  further ; 
For  Death,  who  strikes  whenever  he  likes, 

Is  jealous  of  all  self-murther ! 

Death  saw  a  patient  that  pulled  out  his  purse, 

And  a  doctor  that  took  the  sum ; 
But  he  let  them  be — for  he  knew  that  the  "  fee' 

Was  a  prelude  to  "faw"  and  "fum." 

He  met  a  dustman  ringing  a  bell, 
And  he  gave  him  a  mortal  thrust ; 

For  himself,  by  law,  since  Adam's  flaw, 
Is  contractor  for  all  our  dust. 

He  saw  a  sailor  mixing  his  grog, 

And  he  marked  him  out  for  slaughter  ; 

For  on  water  he  scarcely  had  cared  for  death, 
And  never  on  rum-and-water. 


Death  saw  two  players  playing  at  cards, 
But  the  game  was  n't  worth  a  dump, 

For  he  quickly  laid  them  flat  with  a  spade, 
To  wait  for  the  final  trump ! 


SATIRICAL.  309 


THE  BACHELOR'S   DREAM. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

MY  pipe  is  lit,  my  grog  is  mixed, 
My  curtainS  drawn  and  all  is  snug ; 
Old  Puss  is  in  her  elbow  chair, 
And  Tray  is  sitting  on  the  rug. 
Last  night  I  had  a  curious  dream, 
Miss  Susan  Bates  was  Mistress  Mogg — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

She  look'd  so  fair,  she  sang  so  well, 
I  could  but  woo  and  she  was  won  ; 
Myself  in  blue,  the  bride  in  white, 
The  ring  was  placed,  the  deed  was  done  1 
Away  we  went  in  chaise-and-four, 
As  fast  as  grinning  boys  could  flog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that  my  dog  ? 

What  loving  ttte-d-tttes  to  come  ! 
What  tete-d-tttes  must  still  defer  ! 
When  Susan  came  to  live  with  me, 
Her  mother  came  to  live  with  her ! 
With  sister  Belle  she  could  n't  part, 
But  all  my  ties  had  leave  to  jog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

The  mother  brought  a  pretty  Poll — 
A  monkey,  too,  what  work  he  made ! 
The  sister  introduced  a  beau — 
My  Susan  brought  a  favorite  maid. 
She  had  a  tabby  of  her  own, — 
A  snappish  mongrel  christened  Grog, — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 


The  monkey  bit — the  parrot  screamed, 
All  day  the  sister  strummed  and  sung ; 


810  SATIRICAL. 

The  petted  maid  was  such  a  scold  f 
My  Susan  learned  to  use  her  tongue ; 
Her  mother  had  such  wretched  health, 
She  sat  and  croaked  like  any  frog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

No  longer  Deary,  Duck,  and  Love, 
I  soon  came  down  to  simple  "  M  !" 
The  very  servants  crossed  my  wish, 
My  Susan  let  me  down  to  them. 
The  poker  hardly  seemed  my  own, 
I  might  as  well  have  been  a  log — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

My  clothes  they  were  the  queerest  shape ! 
Such  coats  and  hats  she  never  met ! 
.     My  ways  they  were  the  oddest  ways ! 
My  friends  were  such  a  vulgar  set ! 
Poor  Tompkinson  was  snubbed,  and  huffed, 
She  could  not  bear  that  Mister  Blogg — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

At  times  we  had  a  spar,  and  then 
Mamma  must  mingle  in  the  song — 
The  sister  took  a  sister's  part — 
The  maid  declared  her  master  wrong — 
The  parrot  learned  to  call  me  "  Fool !" 
My  life  was  like  a  London  fog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog? 

My  Susan's  taste  was  superfine, 
As  proved  by  bills  that  had  no  end  ; 
/never  had  a  decent  coat — 
/never  had  a  coin  to  spend ! 
She  forced  me  to  resign  my  club, 
Lay  down  my  pipe,  retrench  my  grog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? . 


SATIRICAL.  311 

Each  Sunday  night  we  gave  a  rout 
To  fops  and  flirts,  a  pretty  list ; 
And  when  I  tried  to  steal  away 
I  found  my  study  full  of  whist ! 
Then,  first  to  come,  and  last  to  go, 
There  always  was  a  Captain  Hogg — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  ? 

Now  was  not  that  an  awful  dream 
For  one  who  single  is  and  snug — 
With  Pussy  in  the  elbow-chair, 
And  Tray  reposing  on  the  rug  ? — 
If  I  must  totter  down  the  hill 
'Tis  safest  done  without  a  clog — 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  cat  ? 
What  d'  ye  think  of  that,  my  dog  V 


ON   SAMUEL  ROGERS. 

LORD   BYRON. 

Question. 

NOSE  and  chin  would  shame  a  knocker, 
Wrinkles  that  would  puzzle  Cocker : 
Mouth  which  marks  the  envious  scoruer, 
With  a  scorpion  in  each  corner, 
Turning  its  quick  tail  to  sting  you 
In  the  place  that  most  may  wring  you : 
Eyes  of  lead-like  hue,  and  gummy  ; 
Carcass  picked  out  from  some  mum  my ; 
Bowels  (but  they  were  forgotten, 
Save  the  liver,  and  that 's  rotten) ; 
Skin  all  sallow,  flesh  all  sodden — 
Form  the  Devil  would  frighten  God  in. 
Is 't  a  corpse  stuck  up  for  show, 
Galvanized  at  times  to  go 
With  the  Scripture  in  connection. 
New  proof  of  the  resurrection  ? 
Vampyre,  ghost,  or  ghoul,  what  is  it  ? 
I  would  walk  ten  miles  to  miss  it 


812  SATIRICAL. 

Answer. 

Many  passengers  arrest  one, 

To  demand  the  same  free  question. 

Shorter 's  my  reply,  and  franker — 

That 's  the  Bard,  the  Beau,  the  Banker. 

Yet  if  you  could  bring  about, 

Just  to  turn  him  inside  out, 

Satan's  self  would  seem  less  sooty, 

And  his  present  aspect — Beauty. 

Mark  that  (as  he  masks  the  bilious 

Air,  so  softly  supercilious) 

Chastened  bow,  and  mock  humility, 

Almost  sickened  to  servility ; 

Hear  his  tone,  (which  is  to  talking 

That  which  creeping  is  to  walking  — 

Now  on  all-fours,  now  on  tiptoe), 

Hear  the  tales  he  lends  his  lip  to ; 

Little  hints  of  heavy  scandals, 

Every  friend  in  turn  he  handles  ; 

All  which  women  or  which  men  do, 

Glides  forth  in  an  innuendo, 

Clothed  in  odds  and  ends  of  humor — 

Herald  of  each  paltry  rumor. 

From  divorces  down  to  dresses, 

Women's  frailties,  men's  excesses, 

All  which  life  presents  of  evil 

Make  for  him  a  constant  revel. 

You  're  his  foe — for  that  he  fears  you, 

And  in  absence  blasts  arid  sears  you : 

You  're  his  friend — for  that  he  hates  you. 

First  caresses,  and  then  baits  you, 

Darting  on  the  opportunity 

When  to  do  it  with  impunity  : 

You  are  neither — then  he  '11  flatter 

Till  he  finds  some  trait  for  satire  ; 

Hunts  your  weak  point  out,  then  shows  it 

Where  it  injures  to  disclose  it, 

In  the  mode  that 's  most  invidious, 

Adding  every  trait  that 's  hideous, 

From  the  bile,  whose  blackening  river 

Rushes  through  his  Stygian  liver. 


SATIRICAL.  313 

Then  he  thinks  himself  a  lover  : 
Why  I  really  can't  discover 
In  his  mind,  age,  face,  or  figure  : 
Viper-broth  might  give  him  vigor  : 
Let  him  keep  the  caldron  steady, 
He  the  venom  has  already. 
For  his  faults,  he  has  but  one — 
'Tis  but  envy,  when  all 's  done. 
He  but  pays  the  pain  he  suffers ; 
Clipping,  like  a  pair  of  snuffers, 
Lights  which  ought  to  burn  the  brighter 
For  this  temporary  blighter. 
He 's  the  cancer  of  his  species, 
And  will  eat  himself  to  pieces ; 
Plague  personified,  and  famine ; 
Devil,  whose  sole  delight  is  damning ! 

For  his  merits,  would  you  know  'em  ? 
Once  he  wrote  a  pretty  Poem. 


MY    PARTNER. 

W.  MACK  WORTH- PEAK  1). 

AT  Cheltenham,  where  one  drinks  one's  fill 

Of  folly  and  cold  water, 
I  danced,  last  year,  my  first  quadrille 

With  old  Sir  Geoffrey's  daughter. 
Her  cheek  with  summer's  rose  might  vie, 

When  summer's  rose  is  newest ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  autumn's  sky, 

When  autumn's  sky  is  bluest ; 
And  well  my  heart  might  deem  her  one 

Of  life's  most  precious  flowers, 
For  half  her  thoughts  were  of  its  sun, 

And  half  were  of  its  showers. 

I  spoke  of  novels: — "  Vivian  Gray" 

Was  positively  charming, 
And  "  Almack's"  infinitely  gay, 

And  "  Frankenstein"  alarming ; 
•      14 


314  SATIRICAL. 

I  said  "  De  Vere"  was  chastely  told, 

Thought  well  of  "  Herbert  Lacy," 
Called  Mr.  Banim's  sketches  "  bold," 

And  Lady  Morgan's  "  racy ;" 
I  vowed  the  last  new  thing  of  Hook's 

Was  vastly  entertaining ; 
And  Laura  said — "  I  dote  on  books, 

Because  it's  always  raining  1" 

I  talked  of  music's  gorgeous  fane, 

I  raved  about  Eossini, 
Hoped  Ronzo  would  come  back  again, 

And  criticized  Paccini; 
I  wished  the  chorus  singers  dumb, 

The  trumpets  more  pacific, 
And  eulogized  Brocard's  aplomb, 

And  voted  Paul  "  terrific." 
What  cared  she  for  Medea's  pride 

Or  Desdemona's  sorrow  ? 
"  Alas !"  my  beauteous  listener  sighed, 

"  We  must  have  storms  to-morrow !" 

I  told  her  tales  of  other  lands ; 

Of  ever-boiling  fountains, 
Of  poisonous  lakes,  and  barren  sands, 
•    Vast  forests,  trackless  mountains ; 
I  painted  bright  Italian  skies, 

I  lauded  Persian  roses, 
Coined  similes  for  Spanish  eyes, 

And  jests  for  Indian  noses ; 
I  laughed  at  Lisbon's  love  of  mass, 

And  Vienna's  dread  of  treason ; 
And  Laura  asked  me  where  the  glass 

Stood  at  Madrid  last  season. 

I  broached  whate'er  had  gone  its  rounds, 

The  week  before,  of  scandal ; 
What  made  Sir  Luke  lay  down  his  hounds, 

And  Jane  take  up  her  Handel ; 
Why  Julia  walked  upon  the  heath, 

With  the  pale  moon  above  her ; 
Where  Flora  lost  her  false  front  teeth, 

And  Anne  her  false  lover ; 


SATIRICAL.  315 

How  Lord  de  B.  and  Mrs.  L. 

Had  crossed  the  sea  together ; 
My  shuddering  partner  cried — "  Oh,  Ciel  1 

How  could  they  in  such  weather  ?" 

Was  she  a  blue  ? — I  put  my  trust 

In  strata,  petals,  gases ; 
A  boudoir  pedant  ? — I  discussed 

The  toga  and  the  fasces  ; 
A  cockney-muse  ? — I  mouthed  a  deal 

Of  folly  from  Endymion : 
A  saint  ? — I  praised  the  pious  zeal 

Of  Messrs.  Way  and  Simeon ; 
A  politician  ? — It  was  vain 

To  quote  the  morning  paper ; 
The  horrid  phantoms  come  again, 

Rain,  hail,  and  snow,  and  vapor. 

Flat  flattery  was  my  only  chance, 

I  acted  deep  devotion, 
Found  magic  in  her  every  glance, 

Grace  in  her  every  motion ; 
I  wasted  all  a  stripling's  lore, 

Prayer,  passion,  folly,  feeling; 
And  wildly  looked  upon  the  floor, 

And  wildly  on  the  ceiling ; 
I  envied  gloves  upon  her  arm, 

And  shawls  upon  her  shoulder ; 
And  when  my  worship  was  most  warm, 

She  "  never  found  it  colder." 

I  don't  object  to  wealth  or  land  • 

And  she  will  have  the  giving 
Of  an  extremely  pretty  hand, 

Some  thousands,  and  a  living. 
She  makes  silk  purses,  broiders  stools, 

Sings  sweetly,  dances  finely, 
Paints  screens,  subscribes  to  Sunday-schools, 

And  sits  a  horse  divinely. 
But  to  be  linked  for  life  to  her  !— 

The  desperate  man  who  tried  it, 
Might  marry  a  barometer, 

And  hang  himself  beside  it ! 


31F  SATIRICAL. 


THE    BELLE    OF    THE    BALL. 

W.    MACKWOKTH    PRAED. 

YEARS — years  ago — ere  yet  my  dreams 

Had  been  of  being  wise  and  witty ; 
Ere  I  had  done  with  writing  themes, 

Or  yawn'd  o'er  this  infernal  Chitty; 
Years,  years  ago.  while  all  my  joys 

Were  in  my  fowling-piece  and  filly : 
In  short,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 

I  fell  in  love  with  Laura  Lilly. 

I  saw  her  at  a  country  ball ; 

There  when  the  sound  of  flute  and  fiddle 
Gave  signal  sweet  in  that  old  hall, 

Of  hands  across  and  down  the  middle, 
Hers  was  the  subtlest  spell  by  far 

Of  all  that  sets  young  hearts  romancing  : 
She  was  our  queen,  our  rose,  our  star  ; 

And  when  she  danced — oh,  heaven,  her  dancing  ! 

Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white  ; 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender, 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light ; 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender ; 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  ; 
I  thought 't  was  Venus  from  her  isle, 

I  wondered  where  she  'd  left  her  sparrows. 

She  talk'd  of  politics  or  prayers ; 

Of  Southey's  prose,  or  Wordsworth's  sonnets ; 
Of  daggers  or  of  dancing  bears, 

Of  battles,  or  the  last  new  bonnets ; 
By  candle-light,  at  twelve  o'clock, 

To  me  it  matter' d  not  a  tittle, 
If  those  bright  lips  had  quoted  Locke, 

I  might  have  thought  they  murmured  Little. 

Through  sunny  May,  through  sultry  June, 

I  loved  her  with  a  love  eternal ; 
I  spoke  her  praises  to  the  moon, 

I  wrote  them  for  the  Sunday  Journal. 


SATIRICAL.  317 

My  mother  laughed ;  I  soon  found  out 

That  ancient  ladies  have  no  feeling ; 
My  father  frown'd ;  but  how  should  gout 

Find  any  happiness  in  kneeling  ? 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  dean, 

Rich,  fat,  and  rather  apoplectic ; 
She  had  one  brother  just  thirteen, 

Whose  color  was  extremely  hectic ; 
Her  grandmother,  for  many  a  year, 

Had  fed  the  parish  with  her  bounty  ; 
Her  second  cousin  was  a  peer, 

And  lord-lieutenant  of  the  county. 

But  titles  and  the  three  per  cents, 

And  mortgages,  and  great  relations, 
And  India  bonds,  and  tithes  and  rents, 

Oh!  what  are  they  to  love's  sensations  ? 
Black  eyes,  fair  forehead,  clustering  locks, 

Such  wealth,  such  honors,  Cupid  chooses ; 
He  cares  as  little  for  the  stocks, 

As  Baron  Rothschild  for  the  muses. 

She  sketch'd ;  the  vale,  the  wood,  the  beach, 

Grew  lovelier  from  her  pencil's  shading ; 
She  botanized  ;  I  envied  each 

Young  blossom  in  her  boudoir  fading ; 
She  warbled  Handel ;  it  was  grand — 

She  made  the  Catalina  jealous; 
She  touch'd  the  organ ;  I  could  stand 

For  hours  and  hours  and  blow  the  bellows. 

She  kept  an  album,  too,  at  home, 

Well  fill'd  with  all  an  album's  glories; 
Paintings  of  butterflies  and  Rome, 

Patterns  for  trimming,  Persian  stories ; 
Soft  songs  to  Julia's  cockatoo, 

Fierce  odes  to  famine  and  to  slaughter ; 
And  autographs  of  Prince  Laboo, 

And  recipes  of  elder  water. 

And  she  was  flatter'd,  worship' d,  bored, 

Her  steps  were  watch'd,  her  dress  was  noted, 


818  SATIRICAL. 

Her  poodle  dog  was  quite  adored, 
Her  sayings  were  extremely  quoted. 

She  laugh'd,  and  every  heart  was  glad, 
As  if  the  taxes  were  abolish'd  ; 

She  frown' d,  and  every  look  was  sad, 
As  if  the  opera  were  demolishd. 

She  smil'd  on  many  just  for  fun — 

I  knew  that  there  was  no  tiling  in  it; 
I  was  the  first  the  only  one 

Her  heart  thought  of  for  a  minute  ; 
I  knew  it,  for  she  told  me  so, 

In  phrase  which  was  divinely  molded ; 
She  wrote  a  charming  hand,  and  oh! 

How  sweetly  all  her  notes  were  folded ! 

Our  love  was  like  most  other  loves — 

A  little  glow,  a  little  shiver ; 
A  rosebud  and  a  pair  of  gloves, 

And  "Fly  Not  Yet,"  upon  the  river; 
Some  jealousy  of  some  one's  heir, 

Some  hopes  of  dying  broken-hearted, 
A  miniature,  a  lock  of  hair, 

The  usual  vows — and  then  we  parted. 

We  parted — months  and  years  roll'd  by  ; 

We  met  again  for  summers  after ; 
Our  parting  was  all  sob  and  sigh — 

Our  meeting  was  all  mirth  and  laughter ; 
For  in  my  heart's  most  secret  cell, 

There  had  been  many  other  lodgers ; 
And  she  was  not  the  ball-room  belle, 

But  only  Mrs. — Something — Rogers. 


SORROWS    OF    WERTHER. 

W.  MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

WERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 

Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 

She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


SATIRICAL.  319 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 
And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 

Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 

And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 
Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 

And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


THE    YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS. 

W.  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

["A  surgeon  of  the  United  States  army  says,  that  on  inquiring  of  the  Captain 
of  his  company,  he  found  tliat  nine  tenths  of  the  men  had  enlisted  on  account  of 
some  female  difficulty.'1]— M or ning  Paper. 

YE  Yankee  volunteers ! 
It  makes  my  bosom  bleed 
When  I  your  story  read, 

Though  oft  'tis  told  one. 
So — in  both  hemispheres 
The  woman  are  untrue, 
And  cruel  in  the  New, 

As  in  the  Old  one ! 

What — in  this  company 

Of  sixty  sons  of  Mars, 

Who  march  'neath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  fife  and  horn, 
Nine  tenths  of  all  we  see 
Along  the  warlike  line 
Had  but  one  cause  to  join 

This  Hope  Folorn  ? 


320 


SATIRICAL. 

Deserters  from  the  realm 
Where  tyrant  Venus  reigns, 
You  slipped  her  wicked  chains, 

Fled  and  out-ran  her. 
And  now,  with  sword  and  helm, 
Together  banded  are 
Beneath  the  Stripe  and  Star- 
embroidered  banner ! 

And  so  it  is  with  all 

The  warriors  ranged  in  line, 

With  lace  bedizened  fine 

And  swords  gold-hilted — 
Yon  lusty  corporal, 
Yon  color-man  who  gripes 
The  flag  of  Stars  and  Stripes- 
Has  each  been  jilted  ? 

Come,  each  man  of  this  line, 
The  privates  strong  and  tall, 
"  The  pioneers  and  all," 

The  fifer  nimble- 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
Captain  with  epaulets, 
And  Blacky  there,  who  beats 

The  clanging  cymbal — 

0  cymbal-beating  black, 
Tell  us,  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Was  it  some  Lucy  Neal 

Who  caused  thy  ruin  ? 
0  nimble  fifing  Jack, 
And  drummer  making  din 
So  deftly  on  the  skin, 

With  thy  rat-tattooing. 

ConfesSj  ye  volunteers, 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
And  Captain  of  the  line, 
As  bold  as  Roman — 


SATIRICAL.  321 

Confess,  ye  grenadiers, 
However  strong  and  tall, 
The  Conqueror  of  you  all 
Is  Woman,  Woman  I 

No  corselet  is  so  proof, 

But  through  it  from  her  bow, 

The  shafts  that  she  can  throw 

Will  pierce  and  rankle. 
No  champion  e'er  so  tough, 
But 's  in  the  struggle  thrown, 
And  tripped  and  trodden  down 

By  her  glim  ankle. 

Thus,  always  it  has  ruled, 
And  when  a  woman  smiled, 
The  strong  man  was  a  child, 

The  sage  a  noodle. 
Alcides  was  befooled, 
And  silly  Samson  shorn, 
Long,  long  ere  you  were  born, 

Poor  Yankee  Doodle ! 


COURTSHIP    AND    MATRIMONY. 

A  POEM,  IN  TWO  CANTOS. 

PUNCH. 
CANTO    THE    FIRST. 

COURTSHIP. 

FAIREST  of  earth  1  if  thou  wilt  hear  my  vow, 
Lo !  at  thy  feet  I  swear  to  love  thee  ever ; 

And  by  this  kiss  upon  thy  radiant  brow, 
Promise  affection  which  no  time  shall  sever ; 

And  love  which  e'er  shall  burn  as  bright  as  now, 
To  be  extinguished — never,  dearest,  never ! 

Wilt  thou  that  naughty,  fluttering  heart  resign  ? 

CATHERINE  1  my  own  sweet  Kftto !  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 
14* 


822  SATIRICAL. 

Thou  shalt  have  pearls  to  deck  thy  raven  hair — 
Thou  shalt  have  all  this  world  of  ours  can  bring ; 

And  we  will  live  in  solitude,  nor  care 

For  aught  save  for  each  other.     We  will  fling 

Away  all  sorrow — Eden  shall  be  there! 

And  thou  shalt  be  my  queen,  and  I  thy  king ! 

Still  coy,  and  still  reluctant  ?     Sweetheart  say, 

When  shall  we  monarchs  be  ?  and  which  the  day  ? 


CANTO    THE    SECOND. 

MATRIMONY. 

Now  MRS.  PRINGLE,  once  for  all,  I  say 

I  will  not  such  extravagance  allow ! 
Bills  upon  bills,  and  larger  every  day, 

Enough  to  drive  a  man  to  drink,  I  vow ! 
Bonnets,  gloves,  frippery  and  trash — nay,  nay, 

Tears,  MRS.  PRINGLE,  will  not  gull  me  now — 
I  say  I  won't  allow  ten  pounds  a  week ; 
I  can't  afford  it ;  madam,  do  not  speak  I 

In  wedding  you  I  thought  I  had  a  treasure  ; 

I  find  myself  most  miserably  mistaken  1 
You  rise  at  ten,  then  spend  the  day  in  pleasure ; — 

In  fact,  my  confidence  is  slightly  shaken. 
Ha !  what 's  that  uproar  ?     This,  ma'am,  is  my  leisure ; 

Sufficient  noise  the  slumbering  dead  to  waken  ! 
I  seek  retirement,  and  I  find — a  riot ; 
Confound  those  children,  but  I  '11  make  them  quiet ! 


CONCERNING    SISTERS-IN-LAW. 

PUNCH. 
I. 

THEY  looked  so  alike  as  they  sat  at  their  work, 

(What  a  pity  it  is  that  one  is  n't  a  Turk  !) 

The  same  glances  and  smiles,  the  same  habits  and  arts, 

Tho  same  tastes,  the  same  frocks,  and  (no  doubt)  the  same  hearts. 


SATIRICAL.  323 

The  same  irresistible  cut  in  their  jibs, 
The  same  little  jokes,  and  the  same  little  fibs — 
That  I  thought  the  best  way  to  get  out  of  my  pain 
Was  by — heads  for  Maria,  and  woman  for  Jane ; 
For  hang  me  if  it  seemed  it  could  matter  a  straw, 
Which  dear  became  wife,  and  which  sister-in-law. 

ii. 

But  now,  I  will  own,  I  feel  rather  inclined 
To  suspect  I  've  some  reason  to  alter  my  mind  ; 
And  the  doubt  in  my  breast  daily  grows  a  more  strong  one, 
That  they  're  not  quite  alike,  and  I  've  taken  the  wrong  one. 
Jane  is  always  so  gentle,  obliging,  and  cool ; 
Never  calls  me  a  monster — not  even  a  fool ; 
All  our  little  contentions,  'tis  she  makes  them  up, 
And  she  knows  how  much  sugar  to  put  in  my  cup  : — 
Yes,  I  sometimes  have  wished — Heav'n  forgive  me  the  flaw ! — 
That  my  very  dear  wife  was  my  sister-in-law. 


Oh,  your  sister-in-law,  is  a  dangerous  thing ! 

The  daily  comparisons,  too,  she  will  bring ! 

\Vife — curl-papered,  slip-shod,  unwashed  and  undressed  ; 

She — ringleted,  booted,  and  "fixed  in  her  best ;" 

Wife — sulky,  or  storming,  or  preaching,  or  prating ; 

She — merrily  singing,  or  laughing,  or  chatting : 

Then  the  innocent  freedom  her  friendship  allows 

To  the  happy  half-way  between  mother  and  spouse. 

In  short,  if  the  Devil  e'er  needs  a  cat's-paw, 

He  can't  find  one  more  sure  than  a  sister-in-law. 

IV. 

That  no  good  upon  earth  can  be  had  undiluted 
Is  a  maxim  experience  has  seldom  refuted ; 
And  preachers  and  poets  have  proved  it  is  so 
With  abundance  of  tropes,  more  or  less  apropos. 
Every  light  has  its  shade,  every  rose  has  its  thorn, 
The  cup  has  its  head-ache,  its  poppy  the  corn  ; 
There 's  a  fly  in  the  ointment,  a  spot  on  the  sun — 
In  short,  they  Ve  used  all  illustrations — but  one  ; 
And  have  left  it  to  me  the  most  striking  to  draw — 
Viz. :  that  none,  without  wives,  can 


324  SATIKICAL. 

THE    LOBSTERS.* 

PUNCH. 

As  a  young  Lobster  roamed  about^ 

Itself  and  mother  being  out, 

Their  eyes  at  the  same  moment  fell 

On  a  boiled  lobster's  scarlet  shell. 

"  Look,"  said  the  younger ;  "  is  it  true 

That  we  might  wear  so  bright  a  hue  ? 

No  coral,  if  I  trust  mine  eye, 

Can  with  its  startling  brilliance  vie  ; 

While  you  and  I  must  be  content 

A  dingy  aspect  to  present." 

"  Proud  heedless  fool,"  the  parent  cried  ; 

"  Know'st  thou  the  penalty  of  pride  ? 

The  tawdry  finery  you  wish, 

Has  ruined  this  unhappy  fish. 

The  hue  so  much  by  you  desired 

By  his  destruction  was  acquired — 

So  be  contented  with  your  lot, 

Nor  seek  to  change  by  going  to  pot." 


TO    SONG-BIRDS    ON  A   SUNDAY. 

PUNCH. 

SILENCE,  all !  ye  winged  choir  ; 
Let  not  yon  right  reverend  sire 
Hear  your  happy  symphony : . 
'Tis  too  good  for  such  as  he. 

On  the  day  of  rest  divine, 
He  poor  townsfolk  would  confine 
In  their  crowded  streets  and  lanes, 
Where  they  can  not  hear  your  strains. 

All  the  week  they  drudge  away, 
Having  but  one  holiday ; 
No  more  time  for  you,  than  that — 
Unlike  bishops,  rich  and  fat. 

*  Appeared  at  the  time  of  the  Anti-popery  excitement,  produced  by  the  titles 
of  Cardinal  Wiseman,  etc. 


SATIRICAL.  325 

Utter  not  your  cheerful  sounds, 
Therefore,  in  the  bishop's  grounds; 
Make  him  melody  no  more, 
Who  denies  you  to  the  poor. 

Linnet,  hist !  and  blackbird,  hush ! 
Throstle,  be  a  songless  thrush ; 
Nightingale  and  lark,  be  mute  ; 
Never  sing  to  such  a  brute. 

Robin,  at  the  twilight  dim, 
Never  let  thine  evening  hymn, 
Bird  of  red  and  ruthful  breast, 
Lend  the  bishop's  Port  a  zest. 

Soothe  not,  birds,  his  lonesome  hours. 
Keeping  us  from  fields  and  flowers, 
Who  to  pen  us  tries,  instead, 
'Mong  the  intramural  dead. 

Only  let  the  raven  croak 
At  Mm  from  the  rotten  oak ; 
Let  the  magpie  and  the  jay 
Chatter  at  him  on  his  way. 

And  when  he  to  rest  has  laid  him, 

Let  his  ears  the  screech-owl  harry  ; 
And  the  night-jar  serenade  him 

With  a  proper  charivari. 


THE    FIRST    SENSIBLE    VALENTINE. 

(ONE  OF  THE    MOST  ASTONISHING  FRUITS    OF  THE  EMIGRATION  MANIA.) 

PUNCH. 

LET  other  swains,  upon  the  best  cream-laid 

Or  wire-wove  note,  their  amorous  strains  indite ; 

Or,  in  despair,  invoke  the  limner's  aid 

To  paint  the  sufferings  they  can  not  write  : 


326  SATIRICAL. 

Upon  their  page,  transfixed  with  numerous  darts, 

Let  slender  youths  in  agony  expire  • 
Or,  on  one  spit,  let  two  pale  pink  calves'  hearts 

Roast  at  some  fierce  imaginary  fire. 

Let  ANGELINA  there,  as  in  a  bower 

Of  shrubs,  unknown  to  LINDLEY,  she  reposes, 
See  her  own  ALFRED  to  the  old  church  tower 

Led  on  by  CUPID,  in  a  chain  of  roses ; 
Or  let  the  wreath,  when  raised,  a  cage  reveal, 

Wherein  two  doves  their  little  bills  entwine ; 
(A  vile  device,  which  always  makes  me  feel 

Marriage  would  only  add  your  bills  to  mine.) 

For  arts  like  these  I  've  neither  skill  nor  time ; 

But  if  you  '11  seek  the  Diggings,  dearest  maid, 
And  share  my  fortune  in  that  happier  clime, 

Your  berth  is  taken,  and  your  passage  paid. 
For  reading,  lately,  in  my  list  of  things, 

"  Twelve  dozen  shirts  I  twelve  dozen  collars,"  too! 
The  horrid  host  of  buttons  and  of  strings 

Flashed  on  my  spirit,  and  I  thought — of  you. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  as  in  my  chest  I  dived — 

That  vast  receptacle  of  all  things  known — 
"  To  teach  this  truth  my  outfit  was  contrived, 

It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone !" 
Then  fly  with  me  !     My  bark  is  on  the  shore 

(Her  mark  A  1,  her  size  eight  hundred  tons), 
And  though  she  's  nearly  full,  can  take  some  more 

Dry  goods,  by  measurement — say  GREEN  and  SONS. 

Yes,  fly  with  me !     Had  all  our  friends  been  blind, 

"We  might  have  married,  and  been  happy  here  ; 
But  since  young  married  folks  the  means  must  find 

The  eyes  of  stern  society  to  cheer, 
And  satisfy  its  numerous  demands, 

I  think  'twill  save  us  many  a  vain  expense, 
If  on  our  wedding  cards  this  Notice  stands, 

"  At  Home,  at  Ballarat,  just  three  months  hence  !" 


SATIRICAL.  327 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  AUSTRIAN  FRONTIER. 

PUNCH. 

"  DET  must  not  pass !"  was  the  warning  cry  of  the  Austrian  sen 
tinel 

To  onft  whose  little  knapsack  bore  the  books  he  loved  so  well. 

"  They  must  not  pass  ?  Now,  wherefore  not  ?"  the  wond'ring 
tourist  cried ; 

"  No  English  book  can  pass  mit  me  ;"  the  sentinel  replied. 

The  tourist  laughed  a  scornful  laugh ;  quoth  he,  "  Indeed,  I  hope 

There  are  few  English  books  would  please  a  Kaiser  or  a  Pope  ; 

But  these  are  books  in  common  use  :  plain  truths  and  facts  they 
teU— " 

"  Der  Teufel !    Den  dey  most  not  pass !"  said  the  startled  sentinel 

"  This  Handbook  to  North  Germany,  by  worthy  Mr.  MURRAY, 
Need  scarcely  put  your  government  in  such  a  mighty  flurry ; 
If  tourists'  handbooks  be  proscribed,  pray  have  you  ever  tried 
To  find  a  treasonable  page  in  Bradshaws  Railway  Guide  ? 
This  map,  again,  of  Switzerland — nay,  man,  you  need  n't  start  or 
Look  black  at  such  a  little  map,  as  if 't  were  Magna  Charta ; 
I  know  it  is  the  land  of  TELL,  but,  curb  your  idle  fury — 
We  've  not  the  slightest  hope,  to-day,  to  find  a  TELL  in  your  eye 
(Un)." 

"  Sturmwetter  !"  said  the  sentinel,  "  Come !  cease  dis  idle  babbles ! 
Was  ist  dis  oder  book  I  see  ?     Das  Haus  mit  sieben  Gabbles? 
I  nevvare  heard  of  him  bifor,  ver  mosh  I  wish  I  had, 
For  now  Ich  kann  nicht  let  him  pass,  for  fear  he  should  be  bad. 
Das  Haus  of  Commons  it  must  be ;  Ja  wohl !  'tis  so,  and  den 
Die  Sieben  Gabbles  are  de  talk  of  your  chief  public  men  ; 
Potzmiekchen !  it  is  dreadful  books.     Ja !  Ja !  I  know  him  well ; 
Hoch  Himmel !  here  he  most  not  pass :"  said  the  learned  sen 
tinel. 

"  Dis  PLATO,  too,  I  ver  mosh  fear,  he  will  corrupt  the  land, 
He  has  soch  many  long  big  words,  Ich  kann  nicht  onderstand." 
u  My  friend,"  the  tourist  said,  "  I  fear  you  're  really  in  the  way  to 
Quite  change  the  proverb,  and  be  friends  with  neither  Truth  nor 
PLATO. 


328  SATIRICAL. 

My  books,  'tis  true,  are  little  worth,  but  they  have  served  me 
long, 

And  I  regard  the  greatness  less  than  the  nature  of  the  wrong  ; 

So,  if  the  books  must  stay  behind,  I  stay  behind  as  well." 

"  Es  ist  mir  nichts,  mein  lieber  Freund,"  said  the  courteous  sen 
tinel. 


ODE  TO  THE  GREAT  SEA-SERPENT  ON  HIS  WON 
DERFUL  REAPPEARANCE. 

PUNCH. 

FROM  what  abysses  of  the  unfathom'd  sea 

Turnest  thou  up,  Great  Serpent,  now  and  then, 

If  we  may  venture  to  believe  in  thee, 
And  affidavits  of  sea-faring  men  ? 

What  whirlpool  gulf  to  thee  affords  a  home  ! 

Amid  the  unknown  depths  where  dost  thou  dwell  ? 
If—  like  the  mermaid,  with  her  glass  and  comb  — 

Thou  art  not  what  the  vulgar  call  a  Sell. 

Art  thou,  indeed,  a  serpent  and  no  sham  ? 

Or,  if  no  serpent,  a  prodigious  eel, 
An  entity,  though  modified  by  flam, 

A  basking  shark,  or  monstrous  kind  of  seal  ? 

I  '11  think  that  thou  a  true  Ophidian  art  ; 

I  can  not  say  a  reptile  of  the  deep, 
Because'  thou  dost  not  play  a  reptile's  part; 

Thou  swimmest,  it  appears,  and  dost  not  creep. 


The  Captain  was  not  WALKER  but 

I  '11  trust,  by  whom  thou  some  time  since  wast  seen  ; 
And  him  who  says  he  saw  thee  t'other  day, 

I  will  not  bid  address  the  corps  marine. 

Sea-Serpent,  art  thou  venomous  or  not  ? 

What  sort  of  snake  may  be  thy  class  and  style  ? 
That  of  Mud-Python,  by  APOLLO  shot, 

And  mentioned  —  rather  often  —  by  CARLYLE  ? 


SATIRICAL.  3) 

Or,  art  thou  but  a  serpent  of  the  mind  ?  * 

Doubts,  though  subdued,  will  oft  recur  again — 

A  serpent  of  the  visionary  kind, 

Proceeding  from  the  grog-oppressed  brain  ? 

Art  thou  a  giant  adder,  or  huge  asp, 

And  hast  thou  got  a  rattle  at  thy  tail  ? 
If  of  the  Boa  species,  couldst  thou  clasp 

Within  thy  fold,  and  suffocate,  a  whale  ? 

How  long  art  thou  ? — Some  sixty  feet,  they  say, 
And  more — but  how  much  more  they  do  not  know : 

I  fancy  thou  couldst  reach  across  a  bay 
From  head  to  head,  a  dozen  miles  or  so. 

Scales  hast  thou  got,  of  course — but  what 's  thy  weight  ? 

On  either  side  'tis  said  thou  hast  a  fin, 
A  crest,  too,  on  thy  neck,  deponents  state, 

A  saw-shaped  ridge  of  flabby,  dabby  skin. 

If  I  could  clutch  thee — in  a  giant's  grip — 

Could  I  retain  thee  in  that  grasp  sublime  ? 
Wouldst  thou  not  quickly  through  my  fingers  slip, 

Being  all  over  glazed  with  fishy  slime  ? 

Hast  thou  a  forked  tongue — and  dost  thou  hiss 

If  ever  thou  art  bored  with  Ocean's  play  ? 
And  is  it  the  correct  hypothesis 

That  thou  of  gills  or  lungs  dost  breathe  by  way  ? 

What  spines,  or  spikes,  or  claws,  or  nails,  or  fin, 

Or  paddle,  Ocean-Serpent,  dost  thou  bear  ? 
What  kind  of  teeth  show'st  thou  when  thou  dost  grin  ?— 

A  set  that  probably  would  make  one  stare. 

What  is  thy  diet  ?     Canst  thou  gulp  a  shoal 

Of  herrings  ?     Or  hast  thou  the  gorge  and  room 

To  bolt  fat  porpoises  and  dolphins,  whole, 
By  dozens,  e'en  as  oysters  we  consume  ? 

Art  thou  alone,  thou  serpent,  on  the  brine, 

The  sole  surviving  member  of  thy  race  ? 
Is  there  no  brother,  sister,  wife,  of  thine, 

But  thou  alone,  afloat  on  Ocean's  face  ? 


330  S  A  TI  R  I  C  AL. 

If  such  a  calculation  may  be  made, 

Thine  age  at  what  a  figure  may  we  take  ? 

When  first  the  granite  mountain-stones  were  laid, 
Wast  thou  not  present  there  and  then,  old  Snake  ? 

What  fossil  Saurians  in  thy  time  have  been  ? 

How  many  Mammoths  crumbled  into  mold  ? 
What  geologic  periods  hast  thou  seen, 

Long  as  the  tail  thou  doubtless  canst  unfold  ? 

As  a  dead  whale,  but  as  a  whale,  though  dead, 
Thy  floating  bulk  a  British  crew  did  strike ; 

And,  so  far,  none  will  question  what  they  said, 
That  thou  unto  a  whale  wast  very  like. 

A  flock  of  birds  a  record,  rather  loose, 

Describes  as  hovering  o'er  thy  lengthy  hull ; 

Among  them,  doubtless,  there  was  many  a  Goose, 
And  also  several  of  the  genus  Gull. 


THE  FEAST  OF  VEGETABLES,  AND  THE  FLOW  OF 
WATER. 

PUNCH. 

NEW  YEAR  comes, — so  let 's  be  jolly ; 

On  the  board  the  Turnip  smokes, 
While  we  sit  beneath  the  holly, 

Eating  Greens  and  passing  jokes. 

How  the  Cauliflower  is  steaming, 

Sweetest  flower  that  ever  blows ! 
See,  good  old  Sir  Kidney,  beaming, 

Shows  his  jovial  famed  red  nose. 

Here  behold  the'  reign  of  Plenty, — 

Help  the  Carrots,  hand  the  Kail ; 
Roots  how  nice,  and  herbs  how  dainty, 

Well  washed  down  with  ADAM'S  Ale ! 


SATIRICAL.  331 

Feed  your  fill, — untasted  only 

Let  the  fragrant  onion  go ; 
Or,  amid  the  revels  lonely, 

Go  not  nigh  the  mistletoe  I" 


KINDRED   QUACKS. 

PUNCH. 

I  OVERHEARD  two  matrons  grave,  allied  by  close  affinity 
(The  name  of  one  was  PHYSIC,  and  the  other's  was  DIVINITY), 
As  they  put  their  groans  together,  both  so  doleful  and  lugu 
brious  : 

Says  PHYSIC,  "  To  unload  the  heart  of  grief,  ma'am,  is  salubri 
ous: 

Here  am  I,  at  my  tune  of  life,  in  this  year  of  our  deliverance ; 
My  age  gives  me  a  right  to  look  for  some  esteem  and  reverence. 
But,  ma'am,  I  feel  it  is  too  true  what  every  body  says  to  me, — 
Too  many  of  my  children  are  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  me." 

"  Ah !"  says  DIVINITY,  "  my  heart  can  suffer  with  another,  ma'am ; 
I  'm  sure  I  can  well  understand  your  feelings  as  a  mother,  ma'am. 
I  've  some,  as  well, — no  doubt  but  what  you  're  perfectly  aware 

on't,  ma'am, 
Whose    doings  bring  derision  and  discredit  on  their  parent, 

ma'am." 

"  There  are  boys  of  mine,"  says  PHYSIC,  "  ma'am,  such  silly  fancies 

nourishing, 
As  curing  gout  and  stomach-ache  by  pawing  and  by  flourishing." 

"  Well,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  I  've  those  that  teach  that  Heaven's 

beatitudes 
Are  to  be  earned  by  postures,  genuflexions,  bows,  and  attitudes." 

"  My  good-for-nothing  sons,"  says  PHYSIC,  "  some  have  turned 

hydropathists, 
Some  taken  up  with  mesmerism,  or  joined  the  homceopathists." 


332  SATIRICAL. 

"  Mine,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  pursue  a  system  of  girncrackery, 
Called  Puseyism,  a  pack  of  stuff,  and  quite  as  arrant  quackery." 

Says  PHYSIC,  "  Mine  have  sleep-walkers,  pretending  through  the 

hide  of  you, 
To  look,  although  their  eyes  are  shut,  and  tell  you  what 's  inside 

of  you." 

"  Ah !"  says  DIVINITY,  "  so  mine,  with  quibbling  and  with  cavil 
ing, 

Would  have  you,  ma'am,  to  blind  yourself,  to  see  the  road  to  travel 
in." 

"  Mine,"  PHYSIC  says,  "  have  quite  renounced  their  good  old  pills 

and  potions,  ma'am, 
For  doses  of  a  billionth  of  a  grain,  and  such  wild  notions,  ma'am." 

"  So,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  have  mine  left  wholesome  exhortation, 

ma'am, 
For  credence-tables,  reredoses,  rood-lofts,  and  maceration,  ma'am." 

"  But  hospitals,"  says  PHYSIC,  "  my  misguided  boys  are  founding, 
ma'am." 

"  Well,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  of  mine,  the  chapels  are  abounding, 
ma'am." 

"  Mine  are  trifling  with  diseases,  ma'am,"  says  PHYSIC,  "  not  at 
tacking  them." 

"  Mine,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  instead  of  curing  souls,  are  quacking 
them." 

"  Ah,  ma'am,"  says  PHYSIC,  "  I  'm  to  blame,  I  fear,  for  these  ab 
surdities." 

"  That 's  my  fear  too,"  DIVINITY  says ;  "  ma'am,  upon  my  word  it 

is," 

Says  PHYSIC,  "  Fees,  not  science,  have  been  far  too  much  my 
wishes,  ma'am." 

"  Truth,"  says  DIVINITY,  "  I  've  loved  much  less  than  loaves  and 
fishes,  ma'am." 


SATIRICAL.  333 

Says  each  to  each,  "  We  're  simpletons,  or  sad  deceivers,  some  of 

us; 
And  I  am  sure,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  whatever  will  become  of 

us." 


THE  RAILWAY   TRAVELER'S   FAREWELL   TO   HIS 
FAMILY. 

PUNOH. 

'T  WAS  business  call'd  a  Father  to  travel  by  the  Rail  ; 
His  eye  was  calm,  his  hand  was  firm,  although  his  cheek  was  pale. 
He  took  his  little  boy  and  girl,  and  set  them  on  his  knee  ; 
And  their  mother  hung  about  his  neck,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast 
and  free. 

I  'm  going  by  the  Rail,  my  dears — ELIZA,  love,  don't  cry — 
Now,  kiss  me  both  before  I  leave,  and  wish  Papa  good-by. 
I  hope  I  shall  be  back  again,  this  afternoon,  to  tea, 
And  then,  I  hope,  alive  and  well,  that  your  Papa  you  '11  see. 

I  'm  going  by  the  Rail,  my  dears,  where  the  engines  puff  and  hiss ; 
And  ten  to  one  the  chances  are  that  something  goes  amiss ; 
And  in  an  instant,  quick  as  thought — before  you  could  cry  "  Ah  !" 
An  accident  occurs,  and — say  good-by  to  poor  Papa ! 

Sometimes  from  scandalous  neglect,  my  dears,  the  sleepers  sink, 
And  then  you  have  the  carriages  upset,  as  you  may  think. 
l*he  progress  of  the  train,  sometimes,  a  truck  or  coal-box  checks, 
And  there  's  a  risk  for  poor  Papa's,  and  every  body's  necks. 

Or  there  may  be  a  screw  loose,  a  hook,  or  bolt,  or  pin — 
Or  else  an  ill-made  tunnel  may  give  way,  and  tumble  in ; 
And  in  the  wreck  the  passengers  and  poor  Papa  remain 
Confined,  till  down  upon  them  comes  the  next  Excursion-train. 

If  a  policeman  's  careless,  dears,  or  if  not  over-bright, 
When  he  should  show  a  red  flag,  it-  may  be  he  shows  a  white ; 
Between  two  trains,  in  consequence,  there  's  presently  a  clash, 
If  poor  Papa  is  only  bruised,  he  's  lucky  in  the  smash. 


334  SATIRICAL. 

Points  may  be  badly  managed,  as  they  were  the  other  day, 
Because  a  stingy  Company  for  hands  enough  won't  pay ; 
Over  and  over  goes  the  train — the  engine  off  the  rail, 
And  poor  Papa  's  unable,  when  he  's  found,  to  tell  the  tale. 

And  should  your  poor  Papa  escape,  my  darlings,  with  his  life, 
May  he  return  on  two  legs,  to  his  children  and  his  wife — 
With  both  his  arms,  my  little  dears,  return  your  fond  embrace, 
And  present  to  you,  unalter'd,  every  feature  of  his  face. 

I  hope  I  shall  come  back,  my  dears — but,  mind,  I  am  insured— 
So,  in  case  the  worst  may  happen,  you  are  so  far  all  secured. 
An  action  then  will  also  lie  for  you  and  your  Mamma — 
And  don't  forget  to  bring  it — on  account  of  poor  Papa. 


A    LETTER    AND    AN    ANSWER. 

PUNCH. 
THE  PRESBYTERS  TO  PALMERSTON. 

THE  Plague  has  come  among  us, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
Fear  and  remorse  have  stung  us, 

Miserable  shiners ! 
We  ask  the  State  to  fix  a  day, 
Whereon  all  men  may  fast  and  pray. 
That  Heaven  will  please  to  turn  away 
The  Plague  that  works  us  sore  dismay, 

Miserable  sinners ! 

PALMERSTON  TO  THE  PRESBYTERS. 

The  Plague  that  comes  among  you, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
To  effort  hath  it  strung  you  ? 

Miserable  sinners ! 

You  ask  that  all  should  fast  and  pray  ; 
Better  all  wake  and  work,  I  say ; 
Sloth  and  supineness  put  away, 
That  so  the  Plague  may  cease  to  slay  \ 

Miserable  sinners! 


SATIRICAL. 

For  Plagues,  like  other  evils, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
Are  GOD'S  and  not  the  Devil's, 

Miserable  sinners  I 
Scourges  they  are,  but  in  a  hand 
Which  love  and  pity  do  command ; 
And  when  the  heaviest  stripes  do  lull, 
'Tis  where  they  're  wanted  most  of  all, 

Miserable  sinners ! 

Look  round  about  your  city, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
Arouse  to  shame  and  pity, 

Miserable  sinners ! 

Pray :  but  use  brush  and  limewash  pail ; 
*1ast :  but  feed  those  for  want  who  fail  : 
Bow  down,  gude  town,  to  ask  for  grace, 
But  bow  with  cleaner  hands  and  face, 

Miserable  sinners ! 

All  Time  GOD'S  Law  hath  spoken, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
That  Law  may  not  be  broken, 

Miserable  sinners! 
But  he  that  breaks  it  must  endure 
The  penalty  which  works  the  cure. 
To  us,  for  GOD'S  great  laws  transgressed, 
Is  doomsman  Pestilence  addressed, 

Miserable  sinners ! 

We  can  not  juggle  Heaven, 

Miserable  sinners! 
With  one  day  out  of  seven, 

Miserable  sinners ! 
Shall  any  force  of  fasts  atone 
For  years  of  duty  left  undone  ? 
How  expiate  with  prayer  or  psalm, 
Deaf  ear,  blind  eye,  and  folded  pulm  ? 

Miserable  sinners  I 

Let  us  be  up  and  stirring, 

Miserable  sinners ! 


3.36  SATIRICAL. 

'Mong  ignorant  and  erring, 
Miserable  sinners  1 
Sloth  and  self-seeking  from  us  cast, 
Believing  this  the  fittest  fast, 
For  of  all  prayers  prayed  'neath  the  sun 
There  is  no  prayer  like  work  well  done, 
Miserable  sinners  1 


PAPA   TO   HIS   HEIR, 

A   FAST   MINOR. 

MY  son,  a  father's  warning  heed ; 

I  think  my  end  is  nigh : 
And  then,  you  dog,  you  will  succeed 

Unto  my  property. 

But,  seeing  you  are  not,  just  yet, 

Arrived  at  man's  estate, 
Before  you  full  possession  get, 

You  '11  have  a  while  to  wait 


A  large  allowance  I  allot 

You  during  that  delay ; 
And  I  don't  recommend  you  not, 

To  throw  it  all  away. 

To  such  advice  you  'd  ne'er  attend  ; 

You  won't  let  prudence  rule 
Your  courses ;  but,  I  know,  will  spend 

Your  money  like  a  fool 

I  do  not  ask  you  to  eschew 

The  paths  of  vice  and  sin ; 
You  '11  do  as  all  young  boobies,  who 

Are  left,  as  you  say,  tin. 


SATIRICAL.  337 

You  '11  sot,  you  '11  bet  ;  and,  being  green. 

At  all  that  's  right  you  '11  joke  ; 
Your  life  will  be  a  constant  scene 

Of  billiards  and  of  smoke. 

With  bad  companions  you  '11  consort, 

With  creatures  vile  and  base, 
Who  '11  rob  you  ;  yours  will  be,  in  short. 

The  puppy's  common  case. 

But  oh,  my  son  !  although  you  must 

Through  this  ordeal  pass, 
You  will  not  be,  I  hope  —  I  trust  — 

A  wholly  senseless  ass. 

Of  course  at  prudence  you  will  sneer, 

On  that  theme  I  won't  harp  ; 
Be  good,  I  won't  say  —  that  's  severe  ; 

But  be  a  little  sharp. 

All  rascally  associates  shun 

To  bid  you  were  too  much, 
But,  oh  !  beware,  my  spooney  son, 

Beware  one  kind  of  such. 

It  asks  no  penetrative  mind 

To  know  these  fellows  :  when 
You  meet  them,  you,  unless  you  're  blind, 

At  once  discern  the  men. 


The  turgid  lip,  the  piggish  eye, 
The  nose  in  form  of  hook, 

The  rings,  the  pins,  you  tell  them  by, 
The  vulgar  flashy  look. 

Spend  every  sixpence,  if  you  plcuso, 

But  do  not,  I  implore, 
Oh  !  do  not  go,  my  son,  to  these 

Vultures  to  borrow  more. 
15 


338  SATIRICAL. 

Live  at  a  foolish  wicked  rate, 
My  hopeful,  if  you  choose, 

But  don't  your  means  anticipate 
Through  bill-discounting  Jews. 


SELLING   OFF  AT  THE  OPERA   HOUSE 

A   POETICAL    CATALOGUE. 

PUNCH. 

Lot  One,  The  well-known  village,  with  bridge,  and  church,  and 

green, 

Of  half  a  score  divertissements  the  well-remembered  scene, 
Including  six  substantial  planks,  forming  the  eight-inch  ridge 
On  which  the  happy  peasantry  "came  dancing  down  the  bridge. 
Lot  Two,  A  Sheet  of  Thunder.     Lot  Three,  A  Box  of  Peas 
Employed  in  sending  storms  of  hail  to  rattle  through  the  trees. 
Lot  Four,  A  Canvas  Mossy  Bank  for  Cupids  to  repose. 
Lot  Five,  The  old  Stage  Watering-pot,  complete — except  the  nose. 
Lot  Six,  The  favorite  Water-mill,  used  for  Amind's  dream, 
Complete,  with  practicable  wheel,  and  painted  canvas  stream. 
Lots  Seven  to  Twelve,  Some  sundries — A  Pair  of  Sylphide's 

Wings ; 

Three  dozen  Druid's  Dresses  (one  of  them  wanting  strings). 
Lots  Thirteen,  Fourteen,  Fifteen — Three  Services  of  Plate 
In  real  papier  mdche — all  in  a  decent  state  ; 
One  of  these  services  includes — its  value  to  increase — 
A  full  dessert,  each  plate  of  fruit  forming  a  single  piece. 
Lot  Seventeen,  The  Gilded  Cup,  from  which  Genarro  quaffed. 
'Mid  loud  applause,  night  after  night,  Lucrezia's  poisoned  draught. 
Lots  Eighteen,  Nineteen,  Twenty,  Three  rich  White  Satin  Skirts. 
Lot  Twenty-one,  A  set  of  six  Swiss  Peasants'  Cotton  Shirts. 
Lot  Twenty-two,  The  sheet  that  backed  MasanieUo's  tent 
Lot  Twenty-three,  The  Long  White  Wig — in  wool — of  Bide-the- 

Bent. 

Lots  Twenty-three  to  Forty,  The  Fish — Soles,  Cod,  and  Dace— 
For  pelting  the  Vice-regal  Guard  in  Naples'  Market-place. 
Lot  Forty-one,  Vesuvius,  rather  the  worse  for  wear. 
Lots  Forty-two  to  Fifty,  Priests'  Leggings — at  per  pair. 
Lot  Fifty-one,  The  well-known  Throne,  with  canopy  and  seat, 
And  plank  in  front,  for  courtiers  to  kneel  at  Sovereigns'  feet. 


SATIRICAL.  339 

Lot  Fifty-two,  A  Royal  Robe  of  Flannel,  nearly  white, 

Warranted  equal  to  Cashmere — upon  the  stage  at  night — 

With  handsome  ermine  collar  thrown  elegantly  back  ; 

The  tails  of  twisted  worsted — pale  yellow,  tipped  wi  th  black. 

Lots  Fifty-three  to  Sixty,  Some  Jewellery  rare — 

The  Crown  of  Semiramide — complete,  with  false  back  hair ; 

The  Order  worn  by  Ferdinand,  when  he  proceeds  to  fling 

His  sword  and  medals  at  the  feet  of  the  astonished  king. 

Lot  Sixty-one,  The  Bellows  used  in  Cinderella's  song. 

Lot  Sixty-two,  A  Document.     Lot  Sixty-three,  A  Gong. 

Lots  Sixty-four  to  Eighty,  Of  Wigs  a  large  array, 

Beginning  at  the  Druids  down  to  the  present  day. 

Lot  Eighty-one,  The  Bedstead  on  which  Amina  falls. 

Lots  Eighty- two  to  Ninety,  Some  sets  of  Outer  Walls. 

Lot  Ninety-one,  The  Furniture  of  a  Grand  Duc.il  Room, 

Including  Chair  and  Table.     Lot  Ninety-two,  A  Tomb. 

Lot  Ninety-three,  A  set  of  Kilts.     Lot  Ninety-four,  A  Rill. 

Lot  Ninety-five,  A  Scroll,  To  form  death-warrant,  deed,  or  will 

Lot  Ninety-six,  An  ample  fall  of  best  White  Paper  Snow. 

Lot  Ninety-seven,  A  Drinking-cup,   brimmed  with  stout  extra 

tow. 

Lot  Ninety-eight,  A  Set  of  Clouds,  a  Moon,  to  work  on  flat ; 
Water  with  practicable  boat.     Lot  Ninety-nine,  A  Hat. 
Lot  Hundred,  Massive  Chandelier.     Hundred  and  one,  A  Bower. 
Hundred  and  two,  A  Canvas  Grove.     Hundred  and  three,  A 

Tower. 

Hundred  and  four,  A  Fountain.     Hundred  and  five,  Some  Rocks. 
Hundred  and  six,  The  Hood  that  hides  the  Prompter  in  his  box. 


WONDERS    OF   THE    VICTORIAN   AGE. 

PUNCH. 

OUR  gracious  Queen — long  may  she  fill  her  throne — 

Has  been  to  see  Louis  Napoleon. 

The  Majesty  of  England — bless  her  he.irt!— 

Has  cut  her  mutton  with  a  Bonaparte ; 

And  Cousin  Germans  have  survived  the  view 

Of  Albert  taking  luncheon  at  St.  Cloud. 

In  our  young  days  we  little  thought  to  see 
Such  legs  stretched  under  such  mahogany ; 


340  SATIRICAL. 

That  British  Royalty  would  ever  share 

At  a  French  Palace,  French  Imperial  fare : 

Nor  eat — as  we  should  have  believed  at  school — 

The  croaking  tenant  of  the  marshy  pool. 

At  the  Trois  Freres  we  had  not  feasted  then, 

As  we  have  since,  and  hope  to  do  again. 

This  great  event  of  course  could  not  take  place 
Without  fit  prodigies  for  such  a  case ; 
The  brazen  pig-tail  of  King  George  the  Third 
Thrice  with  a  horizontal  motion  stirr'd, 
Then  rose  on  end,  and  stood  so  all  day  long, 
Amid  the  cheers  of  an  admiring  throng. 
In  every  lawyer's  office  Eldon  shed 
From  plaster  nose  three  heavy  drops  of  red. 
Each  Statue,  too,  of  Pitt  turn'd  up  the  point 
Of  its  proboscis — was  that  out  of  joint  ? 
While  Charles  James  Fox's  grinn'd  from  ear  to  ear, 
And  Peel's  emitted  frequent  cries  of  "  Hear!" 


TO   THE  PORTRAIT  OF   "A  GENTLEMAN," 

IN    THE    ATHENJSUM   GALLERY. 

OLIVER   WEXDELL   HOLMES. 

IT  may  be  so — perhaps  thou  hast 

A  warm  and  loving  heart ; 
I  will  not  blame  thee  for  thy  lace, 

Poor  devil  as  thou  art. 

That  thing,  thou  fondly  deem'st  a  nose, 

Unsightly  though  it  be, — 
In  spite  of  all  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

It  may  be  much  to  thee. 


Those  eyes, — among  thine  elder  friends 
Perhaps  they  pass  for  blue ; — 

No  matter, — if  a  man  can  see, 
What  more  have  eyes  to  do  ? 


SATIRICAL.  341 

Thy  mouth — that  fissure  in  thy  face 

By  something  like  a  chin, — 
May  be  a  very  useful  place 

To  put  thy  victual  in. 

I  know  tliou  hast  a  wife  at  home, 

I  know  thou  hast  a  child, 
By  that  subdued,  domestic  smile 

Upon  thy  features  mild. 

That  wife  sits  fearless  by  thy  side, 

That  cherub  on  thy  knee ; 
They  do  not  shudder  at  thy  looks, 

They  do  not  shrink  from  thee. 


Above  thy  mantel  is  a  hook, — 

A  portrait  once  was  there ; 
It  was  thine  only  ornament, — 

Alas !  that  hook  is  bare. 

She  begged  thee  not  to  let  it  go, 
She  begged  thee  all  in  vain  : 

She  wept, — and  breathed  a  trembling  prayer 
To  meet  it  safe  again. 

It  was  a  bitter  sight  to  see 

That  picture  torn  away ; 
It  was  a  solemn  thought  to  think 

What  all  her  friends  would  say  I 

And  often  in  her  calmer  hours, 

And  in  her  happy  dreams, 
Upon  its  long-deserted  hook 

The  absent  portrait  seems. 

Thy  wretched  infant  turns  his  head 

In  melancholy  wise, 
And  looks  to  meet  the  placid  stare 

Of  those  unbending  eyes. 


342  SATIRICAL. 

I  never  saw  thee,  lovely  one, — 
Perchance  I  never  may ; 

It  is  not  often  that  we  cross 
Such  people  in  our  way ; 

But  if  we  meet  in  distant  years, 
Or  on  some  foreign  shore, 

Sure  I  can  take  my  Bible  oath 
I  've  seen  that  face  before. 


MY    AUNT. 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

MY  aunt !  my  dear  unmarried  aunt  I 

Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her — though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 

My  aunt!  my  poor  deluded  aunt! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down, 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 

Her  father — grandpapa !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles  — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'T  was  in  her  thirteenth  June ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"  Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 


SATIRICAL.  343 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board, 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small. 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins ; — 
0  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done, 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track ;) 
"Ah!"  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  manl" 

Alas !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 

Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 
Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 

His  all-accomplished  maid. 
For  her  how  happy  had  it  been ! 

And  heaven  had  spared  to  me 
To  see  one  sad,  ungathered  rose 

On  my  ancestral  tree. 


COMIC    MISERIES. 

JOHN  G.   SAXE. 

MY  dear  young  friend,  whose  shining  wit 

Sets  all  the  room  a-blaze, 
Don't  think  yourself  a  "happy  dog," 

For  all  your  merry  ways ; 
But  learn  to  wear  a  sober  phiz, 

Be  stupid,  if  you  can, 
It's  such  a  vefy  serious  tiling 

To  be  a  funny  man ! 


344 


SATIRICAL. 

You  're  at  an  evening  party,  with 

A  group  of  pleasant  folks, — 
You  venture  quietly  to  crack 

The  least  of  little  jokes, — 
A  lady  does  n't  catch  the  point, 

And  begs  you  to  explain — 
Alas  for  one  that  drops  a  jest 

And  takes  it  up  again ! 

You  're  talking  deep  philosophy 

With  very  special  force, 
To  edify  a  clergyman 

With  suitable  discourse, — 
You  think  you  've  got  him — when  he  calls 

A  friend  across  the  way, 
And  begs  you  '11  say  that  funny  thing 

You  said  the  other  day  1 

You  drop  a  pretty  jeu-de-mot 

Into  a  neighbor's  ears, 
Who  likes  to  give  you  credit  for 

The  clever  thing  he  hears, 
And  so  he  hawks  your  jest  about, 

The  old  authentic  one, 
Just  breaking  off  the  point  of  it, 

And  leaving  out  the  pun  ! 

By  sudden  change  in  politics, 

Or  sadder  change  in  Polly, 
You,  lose  your  love,  or  loaves,  and  fall 

A  prey  to  melancholy, 
While  every  body  marvels  why 

Your  mirth  is  under  ban, — 
They  tliink  your  very  grief  "  a  jok( 

You  're  such  a  funny  man ! 


'JR. 


You  follow  up  a  stylish  card 
That  bids  you  come  and  dine, 

And  bring  along  your  freshest  wit 
(To  pay  for  musty  wine), 


SATIRICAL.  345 

You  're  looking  very  dismal,  when 

My  lady  bounces  in, 
And  wonders  what  you  're  thinking  of, 

And  why  you  don't  begin ! 

You  're  telling  to  a  knot  of  friends 

A  fancy-tale  of  woes 
That  cloud  your  matrimonial  sky, 

And  banish  all  repose — 
A  solemn  lady  overhears 

The  story  of  your  strife, 
And  tells  the  town  the  pleasant  news : 

You  quarrel  with  your  wife ! 

My  dear  young  friend,  whose  shining  wit 

Sets  all  the  room  a-blaze, 
Don't  think  yourself  "  a  happy  dog," 

For  all  your  merry  ways ; 
But  learn  to  wear  a  sober  phiz, 

Be  stupid,  if  you  can, 
It 's  such  a  very  serious  thing 

To  be  a  funny  man  ! 


IDEES    NAPOLEONIENNES. 

WILLIAM   AYTOUN. 

The  impossibility  of  translating  this  now  well-known  expression  (imperfectly 
rendered  in  a  companion-work,  "Ideas  of  Napolconism"),  will  excuse  the  title 
and  burden  of  the  present  ballad  being  left  in  the  original  French. — TRANS 
LATOR. 

COME,  listen  all  who  wish  to  learn 

How  nations  should  be  ruled, 
From  one  who  from  his  youth  has  been 

In  such-like  matters  school'd ; 
From  one  who  knows  the  art  to  please, 

Improve  and  govern  men — 
Eh  bien  t  Ecoutez,  aux  Idtes, 

Napoleoniennes  ! 

To  keep  the  mind  intently  fixed 
On  number  One  alono — 
15* 


346  SATIRICAL. 

To  look  to  no  one's  interest, 
But  push  along  your  own, 

Without  the  slightest  reference 
To  how,  or  what,  or  when — 

Eli  Trien  I  c'est  la  premiere  Idee 
Napoleomenne. 

To  make  a  friend,  and  use  him  well, 

By  which,  of  course,  I  mean 
To  use  him  up — until  he 's  drain'd 

Completely  dry  and  clean 
Of  all  that  makes  him  useful,  and 

To  kick  him  over  then 
Without  remorse — c'est  une  Idee 

Napoltonienne. 

To  sneak  into  a  good  man's  house 

With  sham  credentials  penn'd — 
To  sneak  into  his  heart  and  trust, 

And  seem  his  children's  friend — 
To  learn  his  secrets,  find  out  where 

He  keeps  his  keys — and  then 
To  bone  his  spoons — c'est  une  Idee 

Napoltonienne. 

To  gain  your  point  in  view — to  wade 

Through  dirt,  and  slime,  and  blood — 
To  stoop  to  pick  up  what  you  want 

Through  any  depth  of  mud. 
But  always  in  the  fire  to  thrust 

Some  helpless  cat's-paw,  when 
Your  chestnuts  burn — c'est  une  Idee 

Napoltonienne. 

To  clutch  and  keep  the  lion's  share — 

To  kill  or  drive  away 
The  wolves,  that  you  upon  the  lambs 

May,  unmolested,  prey — 
To  keep  a  gang  of  jackals  fierce 

To  guard  and  stock  your  den, 
While  you  lie  down — c'est  une  Idee 

NapoUonienne. 


SATIRICAL.  347 

To  bribe  the  base,  to  crush  the  good, 

And  bring  them  to  their  knees — 
To  stick  at  nothing,  or  to  stick 

At  what  or  whom  you  please — 
To  stoop,  to  lie,  to  brag,  to  swear, 

Forswear,  and  swear  again — 
To  rise — Ah  1  voia  des  Idees 

NapoUoniennes. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LOVER'S  FRIEND 

WILLIAM   AYTOUN. 
AIR— "The  days  we  went  a-gipsying." 

I  WOULD  all  womankind  were  dead, 

Or  banished  o'er  the  sea ; 
For  they  have  been  a  bitter  plague 

These  last  six  weeks  to  me : 
It  is  not  that  I  'm  touched  myself, 

For  that  I  do  not  fear ; 
No  female  face  hath  shown  me  grace 
For  many  a  bygone  year. 

But  'tis  the  most  infernal  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who 's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 


Whene'er  we  steam  it  to  Blackwall, 

Or  down  to  Greenwich  run, 
To  quaff  the  pleasant  cider  cup, 

And  feed  on  fish  and  fun ; 
Or  climb  the  slopes  of  Richmond  Hill, 

To  catch  a  breath  of  air : 
Then,  for  my  sins,  he  straight  begins 

To  rave  about  his  fair. 

Oh,  'tis  the  most  tremendous  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 

To  have  a  friend  who 's  lost  his  heart 

A  short  time  ago. 


348  SATIRICAL. 

In  vain  you  pour  into  his  ear 
Your  own  confiding  grief; 
In  vain  you  claim  his  sympathy, 

In  vain  you  ask  relief; 
In  vain  you  try  to  rouse  him  by 

Joke,  repartee,  or  quiz  ; 
His  sole  reply 's  a  burning  sigh, 
And  "  What  a  mind  it  is !" 

O  Lord  !  it  is  the  greatest  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who 's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 

I  Ve  heard  her  thoroughly  described 

A  hundred  times,  I  'm  sure ; 
And  all  the  while  I  've  tried  to  smile, 

And  patiently  endure; 
He  waxes  strong  upon  his  pangs, 

And  potters  o'er  his  grog ; 
And  still  I  say,  in  a  playful  way — 
"  Why  you  're  a  lucky  dog !" 
But  oh  !  it  is  the  heaviest  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who 's  lost  his  hear* 
A  short  time  ago. 

I  really  wish  he  'd  do  like  me 

When  I  was  young  and  strong ; 
I  formed  a  passion  every  week, 

But  never  kept  it  long. 
But  he  has  not  the  sportive  mood 

That  always  rescued  me, 
And  so  I  would  all  women  could 
Be  banished  o'er  the  sea. 

For  'tis  the  most  egregious  bore, 

Of  all  the  bores  I  know, 
To  have  a  friend  who 's  lost  his  heart 
A  short  time  ago. 


PARODIES  AND   BURLESQUES. 


PARODIES  AND  BURLESQUES, 


WINE. 

JOHJT  OAT. 


V)-/('vJ     •       •-  .V.    ;.•••:. 

Whose  qukkening  taate  adds  rigor  to  OK 

Whose  sovereign  power  revives  < 

An<i  tlxawB  the  f Vf>z«n  blood  of  b^/ary  Age, 

A  kindJy  warajlh  dilfuging ; — yo 

Gild  bis  dixn  eyes,  and  paint  wit 

Hi*  wriokl^  visage,  gha*Uy  wa 

Cordial  restorative  to  mortal  man, 

With  copious  Land  by  bc^mi^us  gods  bestow  d  ! 


With  bead  incumbent  on  expanded  palm, 
-        ,.,„,.  -v,vi/d; 

Wbether  inveigling  Hymen  ha«  trej.ann  d 
•Hie  unwary  youth,  aad  tie^I  th.;  gordi^n  knot 

'  ' 

Woiried  an  day  by  load  Xantippe's  dm, 

Who  fufc  not  to  eolt  btm  to  t 


352  PARODIES    AND      BURLESQUES. 

(Taurus,  and  Aries,  and  Capricorn, 

The  greatest  monsters  of  the  Zodiac), 

Or  for  the  loss  of  anxious  worldly  pelf, 

Or  Celia's  scornful  slights,  and  cold  disdain, 

Which  check' d  his  amorous  flame  with  coy  repulse, 

The  worst  events  that  mortals  can  befall ; 

By  cares  depress'd,  in  pensive  hippish  mood, 

With  slowest  pace  the  tedious  minutes  roll, 

Thy  charming  sight,  but  much  more  charming  gust, 

New  life  incites,  and  warms  our  chilly  blood. 

Straight  with  pert  looks  we  raise  our  drooping  front* 

And  pour  in  crystal  pure  thy  purer  juice  ; — 

With  cheerful  countenance  and  steady  hand 

Raise  it  lip-high,  then  fix  the  spacious  rim 

To  the  expecting  mouth : — with  grateful  taste 

The  ebbing  wine  glides  swiftly  o'er  the  tongue ; 

The  circling  blood  with  quicker  motion  flies : 

Such  is  thy  powerful  influence,  thou  straight 

Dispell'st  those  clouds  that,  lowering  dark,  eclips'd 

The  whilom  glories  of  the  gladsome  face  ; — 

While  dimpled  cheeks,  and  sparkling  rolling  eyes, 

Thy  cheering  virtues,  and  thy  worth  proclaim. 

So  mists  and  exhalations  that  arise 

From  "  hills  or  steamy  lake,  dusky  or  gray," 

Prevail,  till  Phoebus  sheds  Titanian  rays, 

And  paints  their  fleecy  skirts  with  shining  gold  ; 

Unable  to  resist,  the  foggy  damps, 

That  vail'd  the  surface  of  the  verdant  fields, 

At  the  god's  penetrating  beams  disperse ! 

The  earth  again  in  former  beauty  smiles, 

In  gaudiest  livery  drest,  all  gay  and  clear. 

When  disappointed  Strephon  meets  repulse, 
ScofFd  at,  despis'd,  in  melancholic  mood 
Joyless  he  wastes  in  sighs  the  lazy  hours, 
Till  reinforc'd  by  thy  most  potent  aid 
He  storms  the  breach,  and  wins  the  beauteous  fort 

To  pay  thee  homage,  and  receive  thy  blessing, 
The  British  seaman  quits  his  native  shore, 
And  ventures  through  the  trackless,  deep  abyss, 
Plowing  the  ocean,  while  the  upheav'd  oak, 
"  With  beaked  prow,  rides  tilting  o'er  the  waves;" 
Shock'd  by  tempestuous  jarring  winds,  she  rolls 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  353 

In  dangers  imminent,  till  she  arrives 

At  those  blest  climes  them  favor'st  with  fhy  presence. 

Whether  at  Lusitania's  sultry  coast, 

Or  lofty  Teneriffe,  Palma,  Ferro, 

Provence,  or  at  the  Celtiberian  shores, 

With  gazing  pleasure  and  astonishment, 

At  Paradise  (seat  of  our  ancient  sire) 

He  thinks  himself  arrived :  the  purple  grapes, 

In  largest  clusters  pendent,  grace  the  vines 

Innumerous :  in  fields  grotesque  and  wild, 

They  with  implicit  curls  the  oak  entwine, 

And  load  with  fruit  divine  his  spreading  boughs : 

Sight  most  delicious !  not  an  irksome  thought, 

Or  of  left  native  isle,  or  absent  friends, 

Or  dearest  wife,  or  tender  sucking  babe, 

His  kindly  treacherous  memory  now  presents ; 

The  jovial  god  has  left  no  room  for  cares. 

Celestial  Liquor  !  thou  that  didst  inspire 
Maro  and  Flaccus,  and  the  Grecian  bard, 
With  lofty  numbers,  and  heroic  strains 
Unparallel'd,  with  eloquence  profound, 
And  arguments  convictive,  didst  enforce 
Fam'd  Tully,  and  Demosthenes  renown' d ; 
Ennius,  first  fam'd  in  Latin  song,  in  vain 
Drew  Heliconian  streams,  ungrateful  whet 
To  jaded  Muse,  and  oft  with  vain  attempt, 
Heroic  acts,  in  flagging  numbers  dull, 
With  pains  essay'd ;  but,  abject  still  and  low, 
His  unrecruited  Muse  could  never  reach 
The  mighty  theme,  till,  from  the  purple  fount 
Of  bright  Lenaean  sire,  her  barren  drought 
He  quench' d,  and  with  inspiring  nectarous  juice 
Her  drooping  spirits  cheer'd  : — aloft  she  towers, 
Borne  on  stiff  pennons,  and  of  war's  alarms, 
And  trophies  won,  in  loftiest  numbers  sings. 
'Tis  thou  the  hero's  breast  to  martial  acts, 
And  resolution  bold,  and  ardor  brave, 
Excit'st :  thou  check'st  inglorious  lolling  ease, 
And  sluggish  minds  with  generous  fires  inflam'st. 
O  thou  !  that  first  my  quickened  soul  didst  warm, 
Still  with  thy  aid  assist  me,  that  thy  praise, 
Thy  universal  sway  o'er  all  the  world, 


S54  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

In  everlasting  numbers,  like  the  theme, 
.  I  may  record,"  and  sing  thy  matchless  worth. 

Had  the  Oxonian  bard  thy  praise  rehears'd, 
TTis  Muse  had  yet  retain'd  her  yonted  height  ; 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  Blenheim's  field  she  soar'd 
Aerial ;    now  in  Ariconian  bogs 
She  lies  inglorious,  floundering,  like  her  theme, 
Languid  and  faint,  and  on  damp  wing,  immerg'd 
In  acid  juice,  in  vain  attempts  to  rise. 

With  what  sublimest  joy  from  noisy  town, 
At  rural  seat,  Lucretius  retir'd  : 
Flaccus,  untainted  by  perplexing  cares, 
Where  the  white  poplar  and  the  lofty  pine 
Join  neighboring  boughs,  sweet  hospitable  shade, 
Creating,  from  Phoebean  rays  secure, 
A  cool  retreat,  with  few  well-chosen  friends, 
On  flowery  mead  recumbent,  spent  the  hours 
In  mirth  innocuous,  and  alternate  verse ! 
With  roses  interwoven,  poplar  wreaths, 
Their  temples  bind,  dress  of  sylvestrian  gods  I 
Choicest  nectarean  juice  crown'd  largest  bowls, 
And  overlook'd  the  brim,  alluring  sight, 
Of  fragrant  scent,  attractive,  taste  divine ! 
Whether  from  Formian  grape  depressed,  Falern, 
Or  Setin,  Massic,  Gauran,  or  Sabine, 
Lesbian,  or  Coecuban,  the  cheering  bowl 
Mov'd  briskly  round,  and  spurr'd  their  heighten'd  wit 
To  sing  Mecsena's  praise,  their  patron  kind. 

But  we  not  as  our  pristine  sires  repair 
To  umbrageous  grot  or  vale  ;  but  when  the  sun 
Faintly  from  western  skies  his  rays  oblique 
Darts  sloping,  and  to  Thetis'  wat'ry  lap 
Hastens  in  prone  career,  with  friends  select 
Swiftly  we  hie  to  Devil,*  young  or  old, 
Jocund  and  boon ;  where  at  the  entrance  stands 
A  stripling,  who  with  scrapes  and  humil  cringe 
Greets  us  in  winning  speech,  and  accent  bland : 
With  lightest  bound,  and  safe  unerring  step, 
He  skips  before,  and  nimbly  climbs  the  stairs. 
Melampus  thus,  panting  with  lolling  tongue, 
And  wagging  tail,  gambols  and  frisks  before 

*  The  Devil  Tavern,  Temple  Bar. 


PAEODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  355 

His  sequent  lord,  from  pensive  walk  return'd, 

Whether  in  shady  wood  or  pasture  green, 

And  waits  his  coming  at  the  well-known  gate. 

Nigh  to  the  stairs'  ascent,  in  regal  port, 

Sits  a  majestic  dame,  whose  looks  denounce 

Command  and  sovereignty  :  with  haughty  air, 

And  studied  mien,  hi  semicircular  throne 

Enclos'd,  she  deals  around  her  dread  commands  ; 

Behind  her  (dazzling  sight  1)  in  order  rang'd, 

Pile  above  pile,  crystalline  vessels  shine : 

Attendant  slaves  with  eager  strides  advance, 

And,  after  homage  paid,  bawl  out  aloud 

Words  unintelligible,  noise  confus'd  : 

She  knows  the  jargon  sounds,  and  straight  describes, 

In  characters  mysterious,  words  obscure : 

More  legible  are  algebraic  signs, 

Or  mystic  figures  by  magicians  drawn, 

When  they  invoke  the  infernal  spirit's  aid. 

Drive  hence  the  rude  and  barbarous  dissonance 
Of  savage  Thracians  and  Croatian  boors ; 
The  loud  Centaurian  broils  with  Lapithse 
Sound  harsh,  and  grating  to  Lenaean  god ; 
Chase  brutal  feuds  of  Belgian  skippers  hence 
(Amid  their  cups  whose  innate  temper  's  shown), 
In  clumsy  fist  wielding  scymetrian  knife, 
Who  slash  each  other's  eyes,  and  blubber' d  face, 
Profaning  Bacchanalian  solemn  rites : 
Music's  harmonious  numbers  better  suit 
His  festivals,  from  instruments  or  voice, 
Or  Gasperani's  hand  the  trembling  string 
Should  touch ;  or  from  the  dulcet  Tuscan  dames, 
Or  warbling  Toft's  far  more  melodious  tongue, 
Sweet  symphonies  should  flow :  the  Delian  god 
For  airy  Bacchus  is  associate  meet. 

The  stair's  ascent  now  gain'd,  our  guide  unbars 
The  door  of  spacious  room,  and  creaking  chairs 
(To  ear  offensive)  round  the  table  sets. 
We  sit ;  when  thus  his  florid  speech  begins : 
"  Name,  sirs  I  the  wine  that  most  invites  your  taste ; 
Champaign,  or  Burgundy,  or  Florence  pure, 
Or  Hock  antique,  or  Lisbon  new  or  old, 
Bounleaux,  or  neat  French  white,  or  Alicant." 


356  PARODIES     AND    BUKLESQUES. 

For  Bourdeaux  we  with  voice  unanimous 
Declare,  (such  sympathy's  in  boon  compeers). 
He  quits  the  room  alert,  but  soon  returns ; 
One  hand  capacious  glistering  vessels  bears 
Resplendent,  the  other,  with  a  grasp  secure, 
A  bottle  (mighty  charge  !)  upstaid,  full  fraught 
With  goodly  wine.     He,  with  extended  hand 
Rais'd  high,  pours  forth  the  sanguine  frothy  juice, 
O'erspread  with  bubbles,  dissipated  soon : 
We  straight  to  arms  repair,  experienc'd  chiefs : 
Now  glasses  clash  with  glasses  (charming  sound !) 
And  glorious  Anna's  health,  the  first,  the  best, 
Crowns  the  full  glass ;  at  her  inspiring  name 
The  sprightly  wine  results,  and  seems  to  smile : 
With  hearty  zeal  and  wish  unanimous, 
Her  health  we  drink,  and  in  her  health  our  own. 

A  pause  ensues :  and  now  with  grateful  chat 
We  improve  the  interval,  and  joyous  mirth 
Engages  our  rais'd  souls ;  pat  repartee, 
Or  witty  joke,  our  airy  senses  moves 
To  pleasant  laughter;  straight  the  echoing  room 
With  universal  peals  and  shouts  resounds. 

The  royal  Dane,  blest  consort  of  the  Queen, 
Next  crowns  the  ruby'd  nectar,  all  whose  bliss 
In  Anna's  plac'd :  with  sympathetic  flame, 
And  mutual  endearments,  all  her  joys, 
Like  to  the  kind  turtle's  pure  untainted  love, 
Center  in  him,  who  shares  the  grateful  hearts 
Of  loyal  subjects,  with  his  sovereign  queen ; 
For  by  his  prudent  care  united  shores 
Were  sav'd  from  hostile  fleets'  invasion  dire. 

The  hero  Marlborough  next,  whose  vast  exploits 
Fame's  clarion  sounds ;  fresh  laurels,  triumphs  new 
We  wish,  like  those  he  won  at  Hockstet's  field. 

Next  Devonshire  illustrious,  who  from  race 
Of  noblest  patriots  sprang,  whose  worthy  soul 
Is  with  each  fair  and  virtuous  gift  adorn'd, 
That  shone  in  his  most  worthy  ancestors ; 
For  then  distinct  in  separate  breasts  were  seen 
Virtues  distinct,  but  all  in  him  unite. 

Prudent  G-odolphin,  of  the  nation's  weal 
Frugal,  but  free  and  generous  of  his  own, 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  357 

Next  crowns  the  bowl ;  with  faithful  Sunderland, 

And  Halifax,  the  Muses'  darling  son, 

In  whom  conspicuous,  with  full  luster,  shine 

The  surest  judgment  and  the  brightest  wit, 

Himself  Mecamas  and  a  Flaccus  too ; 

And  all  the  worthies  of  the  British  realm, 

In  order  rang'd  succeed ;  such  healths  as  tinge 

The  dulcet  wine  with  a  more  charming  gust. 

Now  each  his  mistress  toasts,  by  whose  bright  eye 
He  's  fired ;  Cosmelia  fair,  or  Dulcibell', 
Or  Sylvia,  comely  black,  with  jetty  eyes 
Piercing,  or  airy  Celia,  sprightly  maid ! — 
Insensibly  thus  flow  unnumber'd  hours  ; 
Glass  succeeds  glass,  till  the  Dircean  god 
Shines  in  our  eyes,  and  with  his  fulgent  rays 
Enlightens  our  glad  looks  with  lovely  dye ; 
All  blithe  and  jolly,  that  like  Arthur's  knights 
Of  Rotund  Table,  fam'd  in  old  records, 
Now  most  we  seem'd — such  is  the  power  of  Winu  ! 

Thus  we  the  winged  hours  in  harmless  mirth 
And  joys  unsullied  pass,  till  humid  Night 
Has  half  her  race  perform'd  ;  now  all  abroad 
Is  hush'd  and  silent,  nor  the  rumbling  noise 
Of  coach,  or  cart,  or  smoky  link-boy's  call, 
Is  heard — but  universal  silence  reigns ; 
When  we  in  merry  plight,  airy  and  gay, 
Surpris'd  to  find  the  hours  so  swiftly  fly, 
With  hasty  knock,  or  twang  of  pendant  cord, 
Alarm  the  drowsy  youth  from  slumbering  nod : 
Startled  he  flies,  and  stumbles  o'er  the  stairs 
Erroneous,  and  with  busy  knuckles  plies 
His  yet  clung  eyelids,  and  with  staggering  iv»»l 
Enters  confus'd,  and  muttering  asks  our  wills ; 
When  we  with  liberal  hand  the  score  discharge, 
And  homeward  each  his  course  with  steady  step 
Unerring  steers,  of  cares  and  coin  bereft. 


358  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 


ODE   ON    SCIENCE. 

DEAN    SWIFT. 

O,  HEAVENLY  born !  in  deepest  dells 
If  fairer  science  ever  dwells 

Beneath  the  mossy  cave  ; 
Indulge  the  verdure  of  the  woods, 
With  azure  beauty  gild  the  floods, 

And  flowery  carpets  lave. 

For,  Melancholy  ever  reigns 
Delighted  in  the  sylvan  scenes 

With  scientific  light 
While  Dian,  huntress  of  the  vales, 
Seeks  lulling  sounds  and  fanning  gales, 

Though  wrapt  from  mortal  sight. 

Yet,  goddess,  yet  the  way  explore 
With  magic  rites  and  heathen  lore 

Obstructed  and  depress' d ; 
Till  Wisdom  give  the  sacred  Nine, 
Untaught,  not  uninspired,  to  shine, 

By  Reason's  power  redress'd. 

When  Solon  and  Lycurgus  taught 
To  moralize  the  human  thought 

Of  mad  opinion's  maze, 
To  erring  zeal  they  gave  new  laws, 
Thy  charms,  0  Liberty,  the  cause, 

That  blends  congenial  rays. 

Bid  bright  Astraea  gild  the  morn, 
Or  bid  a  hundred  suns  be  born, 

To  hecatomb  the  ycjir  : 
Without  thy  aid,  in  vain  thf  poles, 
In  vain  the  zodiac  system  rolls, 

In  vain  the  lunar  sphere. 

Come,  fairest  princess  of  the  throng, 
Bring  sweet  philosophy  along, 
In  metaphysic  dreams  : 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  359 

While  raptured  bards  no  more  behold 
A  vernal  age  of  purer  gold, 
In  Heliconian  streams. 

Drive  thraldom  with  malignant  hand, 
To  curse  some  other  destined  land, 

By  Folly  led  astray : 
lerne  bear  on  azure  wing ; 
Euergic  let  her  soar,  and  sing 

Thy  universal  sway. 

So  when  Amphion  bade  the  lyre 
To  more  majestic  sound  aspire, 

Behold  the  mad'ning  throng-, 
In  wonder  and  oblivion  drowned, 
To  sculpture  turned  by  magic  sound, 

And  petrifying  song. 


A    LOVE    SONG, 

IN    THE    MODERN    TASTE. 

DEAN   SWIFT. 

FLUTTERING  spread  thy  purple  pinions 

Gentle  Cupid,  o'er  my  heart : 
I  a  slave  in  thy  dominions ; 

Nature  must  give  way  to  art. 

Mild  Arcadians,  ever  blooming. 

Nightly  nodding  o'er  your  flocks, 
See  my  weary  days  consuming 

All  beneath  yon  flowery  rooks. 

Thus  the  Cyprian  goddess  weening 

Mourned  Adonis,  darling  youth  ; 
Him  the  boar,  in  silence  creeping, 

Gored  with  unrelenting  tooth. 

Cynthia,  tune  harmonious  numbers; 

Fair  Discretion,  string  the  lyre : 
Soothe  my  ever-waking  slumbers : 

Bright  Apollo,  lend  thy  choir. 


360  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES, 

Gloomy  Pluto,  king  of  terrors, 
Arm'd  in  adamantine  chains, 

Lead  me  to  the  crystal  mirrors, 
Watering  soft  Elysian  plains. 

Mournful  cypress,  verdant  willow, 
Gilding  my  Aurelia's  brows, 

Morpheus,  hovering  o'er  my  pillow, 
Hear  me  pay  my  dying  vows. 

Melancholy  smooth  Meander, 
Swiftly  purling  in  a  round, 

On  thy  margin  lovers  wander, 

With  thy  flowery  chaplets  crown' d. 

Thus  when  Philomela  drooping, 
Softly  seeks  her  silent  mate, 

See  the  bird  of  Juno  stooping ; 
Melody  resigns-  to  fate. 


BAUCIS    AND    PHILEMON. 

ON  THE  EVER-LAMENTED  LOSS  OF  THE  TWO  YEW-TREES  IN  THE 
PARISH  OF  CHJLTHORNE,  SOMERSET.  IMITATED  FROM  THE  EIGHTH 
BOOK  OF  OVID. 

DEAN   SWIFT. 

IN  ancient  time,  as  story  tells, 
The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people's  hospitality. 
It  happen'd  on  a  winter  night, 
As  authors  of  the  legend  write, 
Two  brother  hermits,  saints  by  1  ra.dc, 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tatter'd  habits,  went 
To  a  small  village  down  in  Kent  ; 
Where,  in  the  strollers'  canting  .-train, 
They  begg'd  from  door  to  door  in  vain, 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win; 
But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Our  wandering  saints,  in  woeful  state, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate, 
Having  through  all  the  village  past, 
To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  ye'man, 
Call'd  in  the  neighborhood  Philemon  ; 
Who  kindly  did  these  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night ; 
And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  Goody  Baucis  mend  the  fire ; 
While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook, 
And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried  ; 
Then  stepp'd  aside  to  fetch  them  drink, 
Fili'd  a  large  jug  up  to  the  brink, 
And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round ; 
Yet  (what  was  wonderful)  they  found 
'T  was  still  replenish'd  to  the  top, 
As  if  they  ne'er  had  touch'd  a  drop. 
The  good  old  couple  were  amazed, 
And  often  on  each  other  gazed ; 
For  both  were  frighten'd  to  the  heart, 
And  just  began  to  cry,  "  What  ar't !" 
Then  softly  turn'd  aside,  to  view 
Whether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 
The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on't, 
Told  them  their  calling  and  their  or. -and  : 
"  G-ood  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid, 
We  are  but  saints,"  the  hermits  said  ; 
"  No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  yours : 
But  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boor's, 
Not  fit  to  live  on  Christian  ground, 
They  and  their  houses  shall  be  drown' d  ; 
While  you  shall  see  your  cottage  rise, 
And  grow  a  church  before  your  eyes." 

They  scarce  had  spoke,  when  fair  and  soft, 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter ; 
The  heavy  wall  climb'd  slowly  after. 

The  chimney  widen'd,  and  grew  higher, 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 
16 


362  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist, 
And  there  stood  fasten'd  to  a  joist, 
But  with  the  upside  down,  to  show 
Its  inclination  for  below : 
In  vain ;  for  a  superior  force 
Applied  at  bottom  stops  its  course: 
Doom'd  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
'Tis  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack,  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 
A  sudden  alteration  feels, 
Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels ; 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more, 
The  number  made  the  motion  slower. 
The  flier,  though  it  had  leaden  feet, 
Turn'd  round  so  quick  you  scarce  could  see't; 
But,  slacken' d  by  some  secret  power. 
Now  hardly  moves  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied, 
Had  never  left  each  other's  side ; 
The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown, 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone  ; 
But,  up  against  the  steeple  rear'd, 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered ; 
And  still  its  love  to  household  cares, 
By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon,  declares, 
Warning  the  cook-maid  not  to  burn 
That  roast  meat,  which  it  can  not  turn. 

The  groaning-chair  began  to  crawl, 
Like  a  huge  snail,  along  the  wall ; 
There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view, 
And  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  giv\v. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show, 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed, 
Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 

The  ballads,  pasted  on  the  wall, 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  Robin  Hood, 
The  little  Children  in  the  Wood, 
Now  seem'd  to  look  abundance  better, 
Improved  in  picture,  size^  and  letter : 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES. 

And,  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load, 
Such  as  our  ancestors  did  use, 
Was  metamorphosed  into  pews ; 
Which  still  their  ancient  nature  keep 
By  lodging  folks  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage,  by  such  feats  as  these, 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees, 
The  hermits  then  desired  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while, 
Return'd  them  thanks  in  homely  style  ; 
Then  said,  "  My  house  is  grown  eo  fine, 
Methinks,  I  still  would  call  it  mine. 
I  'm  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease ; 
Make  me  the  parson  if  you  please." 

He  spoke,  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier's  coat  fall  down  his  heels : 
He  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe, 
About  each  arm  a  pudding  sleeve ; 
His  waistcoat  to  a  cassock  grew, 
And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue; 
But,  being  old,  continued  just 
As  threadbare,  and  as  full  of  dust. 
His  talk  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues  • 
He  smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  the  news ; 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamp'd  in  the  preface  and  the  text ; 
At  christenings  well  could  act  his  part, 
And  had  the  service  all  by  heart ; 
Wish'd  women  might  have  children  £ist, 
And  thought  whose  sow  had  farrow' d  last; 
Against  dissenters  would  repine, 
And  stood  up  firm  for  "right  divine ;" 
Found  his  head  fill'd  with  many  a  system ; 
But  classic  authors — he  ne'er  miss'd  'em. 

Thus  having  furbish'd  up  a  parson, 
Dame  Baucis  next  they  play'd  their  farce  on. 
Instead  of  homespun  coifs,  were  seen 
Good  pinners  edged  with  colberteen ; 


364  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Her  petticoat  transform' d  apace, 
Became  black  satin,  flounced  with  lace. 
"  Plain  Goody"  would  no  longer  down, 
'T  was  "  Madam,"  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  surprise, 
And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes. 
Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim, 
And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus  happy  in  their  change  of  life, 
Were  several  years  this  man  and  wife : 
When  on  a  day,  which  proved  their  last, 
Discoursing  o'er  old  stories  past, 
They  went  by  chance,  amid  their  talk, 
To  the  church-yard  to  take  a  walk ; 
When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out, 
"  My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout!" — 
"  Sprout,"  quoth  the  man ;  "  what's  this  you  lell  us  ? 
I  hope  you  don't  believe  me  jealous ! 
But  yet,  methinks  I  feel  it  true, 
And  really  yours  is  budding  too— 
Nay — now  I  can  not  stir  my  foot ; 
It  feels  as  if  't  were  taking  root." 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse, 
In  short,  they  both  were  turn'd  to  yews. 
Old  Goodman  Dobson  of  the  green 
Remembers  he  the  trees  has  seen  ; 
He  '11  talk  of  them  from  noon  till  night, 
And  goes  with  folks  to  show  the  sight ; 
On  Sundays,  after  evening  prayer, 
He  gathers  all  the  parish  there ; 
Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew, 
Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon,  grew  : 
Till  once  a  parson  of  our  town, 
To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down  ; 
At  which,  'tis  hard  to  be  believed 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  grieved, 
Grew  scrubbed,  died  a-top,  was  stunt.  •  -1, 
So  the  next  parson  stubb'd  and  burnt  it. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  365 

A  DESCRIPTION   OF  A   CITY   SHOWER. 

IN   IMITATION   OF   VIRGIL'S   GEORGICS. 

DEAN    SWIFT. 

CAREFUL  observers  may  foretell  the  hour, 
(By  sure  prognostics),  when  to  dread  a  shower. 
While  rain  depends,  the  pensive  cat  gives  o'er 
Her  frolics,  and  pursues  her  tail  no  more. 
Returning  home  at  night,  you'll  find  the  sink 
Strike  your  offended  sense  with  double  stink. 
If  you  be  wise,  then,  go  not  far  to  dine: 
You  '11  spend  in  coach-hire  more  than  save  in  wine. 
A  coming  shower  your  shooting  corns  presage, 
Old  aches  will  throb,  your  hollow  tooth  will  rage ; 
Sauntering  in  coffee-house  is  Dulman  seen ; 
He  damns  the  climate,  and  complains  of  spleen. 
Meanwhile  the  South,  rising  with  dabbled  wings, 
A  sable  cloud  athwart  the  welkin  flings, 
That  swill'd  more  liquor  than  it  could  contain, 
And,  like  a.  drunkard,  gives  it  up  again. 
Brisk  Susan  whips  her  linen  from  the  rope, 
While  the  first  drizzling  shower  is  borne  aslope ; 
Such  is  that  sprinkling  which  some  careless  quean 
Flirts  on  you  from  her  mop,  but  not  so  clean : 
You  fly,  invoke  the  gods ;  then,  turning,  stop 
To  rail ;  she  singing,  still  whirls  on  her  mop. 
Not  yet  the  dust  had  shunn'd  the  unequal  strife, 
But,  aided  by  the  wind,  fought  still  for  life, 
And  wafted  with  its  foe  by  violent  gust^ 
'T  was  doubtful  which  was  rain,  and  which  was  dust. 
Ah !  where  must  needy  poet  seek  for  aid, 
When  dust  and  rain  at  once  his  coat  invade  ? 
Sole  coat !  where  dust,  cemented  by  the  rain, 
"  Erects  the  nap,  and  leaves  a  cloudy  stain ! 
Now  in  contiguous  drops  the  flood  comes  down, 
Threatening  with  deluge  this  devoted  town. 
To  shops  in  crowds  the  daggled  females  fly, 
Pretend  to  cheapen  goods,  but  nothing  buy. 
The  Templar  spruce,  while  every  spout 's  abroach, 
Stays  till  'tis  fair,  yet  seems  to  call  a  coach. 


366  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

The  tuck'd  up  sempstress  walks  with  hasty  strides, 
While  streams  run  down  her  oil'd  umbrella's  sides. 
Here  various  kinds,  by  various  fortunes  led, 
Commence  acquaintance  underneath  a  shed. 
Triumphant  Tories,  and  despondiug  Whigs, 
Forget  then-  feuds,  and  join  to  save  their  wigs. 
Eox'd  in  a  chair  the  beau  impatient  sits, 
While  spouts  run  clattering  o'er  the  roof  by  fits, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  frightful  din 
The  leather  sounds ;  he  trembles  from  within. 
So  when  Troy  chairmen  bore  the  wooden  steed, 
Pregnant  with  Greeks  impatient  to  be  freed, 
(Those  bully  Greeks,  who,  as  the  moderns  do, 
Instead  of  paying  chairmen,  ran  them  through), 
Laocoon  struck  the  outside  with  his  spear, 
And  each  imprison'd  hero  quaked  for  fear. 

Now  from  all  parts  the  swelling  kennels  flow. 
And  bear  their  trophies  with  them  as  they  go  : 
Filth  of  all  hues  and  odor,  seem  to  tell 
What  street  they  sail'd  from  by  their  sight  and  smell. 
They,  as  each  torrent  drives  with  rapid  force, 
From  Smithfield  to  St.  Pulchre's  shape  their  course, 
And  in  huge  confluence  join'd  at  Snowhill  ridge, 
Fall  from  the  conduit  prone  to  Holborne  bridge. 
Sweeping  from  butchers'  stalls,  dung,  guts,  and  blood ; 
Drown'd  puppies,  stinking  sprats,  all  drench'd  in  mud, 
Dead  cats,  and  turnip-tops,  come  tumbling  down  the  flood. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  367 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  CURIOSITY; 

OR   A    ROYAL   VISIT   TO   WHITBREAD's   BREWERY. 

PETER   PLNDAR. 
Sic  transit  gloria  mundi  ! — Old  Sun  Dials. 

From  House  of  Buckingham,  in  grand  parade, 
To  Whitbread's  Brewhouse,  moved  the  cavalcade. 

THE  ARGUMENT.—  Peter's  loyalty.— He  suspecteth  Mr.  Warton*  of  joking 

Complinienteth  the  poet  Laureate. — Peter  differeth  in  opinion  from  Mr.  Warton. — 
Taketh  up  the  cudgels  for  King  Edward,  King  Harry  V.,  and  Queen  Bess. — Feats 
on  BLvckhealh  and  Wimbledon  performed  by  our  most  gracious  sovereign. — King 
Charles  the  Second  half  damned  by  Peter,  yet  praised  for  keeping  company  with 
gentlemen. — Peter  praiseth  himself. — Peter  reproved  by  Mr.  Warton. — Desireth 
Mr.  Warton's  prayers. — A  fine  simile. — Peter  still  suspecteth  the  Laureate  of 
ironical  dealings — Peter  expostulated  with  Mr.  Warton. — Mr.  Warton  repli- 
eth. — Peter  administereth  bold  advice. — Wittily  calleth  death  and  physicians 
poachers. — Praiseth  the  king  for  parental  tenderness. — Peter  maketh  a  natural 
simile.— Peter  furthermore  telleth  Thomas  Wartou  what  to  say.— Peter  giveth  a 
beautiful  example  of  ode-writing. 

THE  CONTENTS  OF  THE  ODE. — His  Majesty'st  love  for  the  arts  and  sciences, 
even  in  quadrupeds. — His  resolution  to  know  the  history  of  brewing  beer. — Billy 
Rarnus  sent  ambassador  to  Chiswell  street. — Interview  between  Messrs.  Ramus 
and  Whilbread. — Mr.  Whitbread's  bow,  and  compliments  to  Majesty. — Mr.  Ra- 
mus't;  return  from  his  embassy. — Mr.  Whitbread's  terrors  described  to  Majesty 
by  Mr.  Ramus. — Tho  King's  pleasure  thereat. — Description  of  people  of  worship. 
—Account  of  the  Whitbread  preparation.— The  royal  cavalcade  to  Chiswell-street. 
—The  arrival  at  the  brewhouse.— Great  joy  of  Mr.  Whitbread.— His  Majesty's 
nod,  the  Queen's  dip,  and  a  number  of  questions. — A  West  India  simile. — The 
marvelings  of  the  draymen  described. — His  Majesty  peepeth  into  a  pump. — 
Beautifully  compared  to  a  magpie  peeping  into  a  marrow-bone. — The  minute  cu 
riosity  of  the  King. — Mr.  Whitbread  eudeavoreth  to  surpriae  Majesty. — His  Maj 
esty  puzzleth  Mr.  Whitbread. — Mr.  Whitbread's  horse  expresseth  wonder. — Also 
Mr.  Whitbread's  dog. — His  Majesty  maketh  laudable  inquiry  about  Porter. — 
Again  puzzleth  Mr.  Whilbread.— King  noteth  notable  things.— Profound  ques 
tions  proposed  by  Majesty.— As  profoundly  answered  by  Mr.  Whitbread.— Maj 
esty  in  a  mistake. — Corrected  by  the  brewer. — A  nose  simile. — Majesty's  admira 
tion  of  the  bell. — Good  manners  of  the  bell. — Fine  appearance  of  Mr.  Whitbread's 
pigs. — Majesty  proposeth  questions,  but  benevolently  waiteth  not  for  answers. — 
Peter  telleth  the  duty  of  Kings. — Discovereth  one  of  his  shrewd  maxims. — Sub 
lime  sympathy  of  a  wator-spout  and  a  king. — The  great  use  of  asking  questions. — 
The  habitation  of  truth. — The  collation. — The  wonders  performed  by  the  Royal 
Visitors.— Majesty  proposeth  to  take  leave — Offereth  knighthood  to  Whit 
bread.— Mr.  Whitbread's  objections.— The  king  runneth  a  rig  on  his  host.— Mr. 
Whitbrcad  thanketh  Majesty.— Miss  Whitbread  curtsieth.— The  queen  dippeth.— 
The  Cavalcade  departeth. 

Peter  triumpheth.— Admonisheth  the  Laureate.— Peter  croweth  over  the  Lau 
reate. — Discovereth  deep  knowledge  of  kings,  and  surgeons,  and  men  who  have 
lost  their  legs. — Peter  reasoneth. — Vaunteth. — Even  insulteththe  Laureate. — Pe- 

*  The  Poet  Laureate.  t  George  III. 


308  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

ter  proclaimeth  bis  peaceable  disposition.— Praisetb  Majesty,  and  concludetb  with 
a  prayer  for  curious  kings. 

TOM,  soon  as  e'er  thou  strik'st  thy  golden  lyre, 
Thy  brother  Peter's  muse  is  all  on  fire, 

To  sing  of  kings  and  queens,  and  such  rare  folk : 
Yet,  'midst  thy  heap  of  compliments  so  fine, 
Say,  may  we  venture  to  believe  a  line  ? 

You  Oxford  wits  most  dearly  love  a  joke. 

Son  of  the  Nine,  thou  writest  well  on  naught ; 
Thy  thundering  stanza,  and  its  pompous  thought, 

I  think,  must  put  a  dog  into  a  laugh : 
Edward  and  Harry  were  much  braver  men 
Than  tliis  new-christened  hero  of  thy  pen. 

Yes,  laurelled  Odeman,  braver  far  by  half; 

Though  on  Blackheath  and  Wimbledon's  wide  plain, 
George  keeps  his  hat  off  in  a  shower  of  rain ; 
Sees  swords  and  bayonets  without  a  dread, 
Nor  at  a  volley  winks,  nor  ducks  his  head : 

Although  at  grand  reviews  he  seems  so  blest, 

And  leaves  at  six  o'clock  his  downy  nest, 
Dead  to  the  charms  of  blanket,  wife,  and  bolster ; 

Unlike  his  officers,  who,  fond  of  cramming, 

And  at  reviews  afraid  of  thirst  and  famine, 
With  bread  and  cheese  and  brandy  fill  their  holsters. 

Sure,  Tom,  we  should  do  justice  to  Queen  Bess: 
His  present  majesty,  whom  Heaven  long  bless 

With  wisdom,  wit,  and  art  of  choicest  quality, 
Will  never  get,  I  fear,  so  fine  a  niche 
As  that  old  queen,  though  often  called  old  b — ch, 

In  fame's  colossal  house  of  immortality. 

As  for  John  Dryden's  Charles — that  king 

Indeed  was  never  any  mighty  tiling ; 
He  merited  few  honors  from  the  pen : 

And  yet  he  was  a  devilish  hearty  fellow, 

Enjoyed  his  beef,  and  bottle,  and  got  mellow, 
And  mind — kept  company  with  gentlemen  : 


PARODIES     A.ND    BURLESQUES.  369 

For,  like  some  kings,  in  hobby  grooms, 

Knights  of  the  manger,  curry-combs,  and  brooms, 

Lost  to  all  glory,  Charles  did  not  delight — 
Nor  joked  by  day  with  pages,  servant-maids, 
Large,  red-polled,  blowzy,  hard  two-handed  jades : 

Indeed  I  know  not  what  Charles  did  by  night. 

Thomas,  I  am  of  candor  a  great  lover ; 

In  short,  I  'm  candor's  self  all  over ; 
Sweet  as  a  candied  cake  from  top  to  toe  ; 

Make  it  a  rule  that  Virtue  shall  be  praised, 

And  humble  Merit  from  the  ground  be  raised : 
What  thinkest  thou  of  Peter  now  ? 

Thou  cryest  "  Oh  !  how  false  !  behold  thy  king, 

Of  whom  thou  scarcely  say'st  a  handsome  thing ; 
That  king  has  virtues  that  should  make  thee  stare." 

Is  it  so  ? — Then  the  sin 's  in  me — 

'Tis  my  vile  optics  that  can't  see ; 
Then  pray  for  them  when  next  thou  sayest  a  prayer. 

But,  p'rhaps  aloft  on  his  imperial  throne, 
So  distant,  0  ye  gods !  from  every  one, 
The  royal  virtues  are  like  many  a  star, 
From  this  our  pigmy  system  rather  far  : 
Whose  light,  though  flying  ever  since  creation, 
Has  not  yet  pitched  upon  our  nation.* 

Then  may  the  royal  ray  be  soon  explored — 

And  Thomas,  if  thou 'It  swear  thou  art  not  humming, 

I  '11  take  my  spying-glass  and  bring  thee  word 
The  instant  I  behold  it  coming. 

But,  Thomas  Warton,  without  joking, 

Art  thou,  or  art  thou  not,  thy  sovereign  smoking  ? 

How  canst  thou  seriously  declare, 

That  George  the  Third 
With  Cressy's  Edward  can  compare, 

Or  Harry  ? — 'Tis  too  bad,  upon  my  word  : 
George  is  a  clever  king,  I  needs  must  own, 
And  cuts  a  jolly  figure  on  the  throne. 

*  Such  was  the  sublime  opinion  of  the  Dutch  astronomer,  ITuygens. 
16* 


370  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Now  thou  exclaim'st,  "  God  rot  it  I  Peter,  pray 
What  to  the  devil  shall  I  sing  or  say  ?" 

I  '11  tell  thee  what  to  say,  0  tuneful  Tom : 

Sing  how  a  monarch,  when  his  son  was  dying, 
His  gracious  eyes  and  ears  was  edifying, 
By  abbey  company  and  kettle  drum  : 
Leaving  that  son  to  death  and  the  physician, 
Between  two  fires — a  forlorn-hope  condition ; 
Two  poachers,  who  make  man  their  game, 
And,  special  marksmen !  seldom  miss  their  ami. 

Say,  though  the  monarch  did  not  see  his  son, 
He  kept  aloof  through  fatherly  affection  ; 

Determined  nothing  should  be  done, 

To  bring  on  useless  tears,  and  dismal  recollection. 

For  what  can  tears  avail,  and  piteous  sighs  ? 

Death  heeds  not  howls  nor  dripping  eyes  ; 

And  what  are  sighs  and  tears  but  wind  and  water, 

That  show  the  leakiness  of  feeble  nature  ? 

Tom,  with  my  simile  thou  wilt  not  quarrel ; 
Like  air  and  any  sort  of  drink, 
Whizzing  and  oozing  through  each  chink, 

That  proves  the  weakness  of  the  barrel. 

Say — for  the  prince,  when  wet  was  every  eye, 
And  thousands  poured  to  heaven  the  pitying  sigh 

Devout ; 

Say  how  a  King,  unable  to  dissemble, 
Ordered  Dame  Siddons  to  his  house,  and  Kemble, 

To  spout : 

Gave  them  ice  creams  and  wines,  so  dear ! 

Denied  till  then  a  thimble  full  of  beer ; 

For  which  they  've  thanked  the  author  of  this  meter, 

Videlicet,  the  moral  mender,  Peter 

Who,  in  his  Ode  on  Ode,  did  dare  exclaim, 

And  call  such  royal  avarice,  a  shame. 

Say — but  I  '11  teach  thee  how  to  make  an  ode  ; 
Thus  shall  thy  labors  visit  fame's  abode, 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  37 1 

In  company  with  my  immortal  lay  ; 
And  look,  Tom — thus  I  fire  away — 


BIRTH-DAY    ODE. 

This  day,  this  very  day,  gave  birth, 

Not  to  the  brightest  monarch  upon  earth, 

Because  there  are  some  brighter  and  as  big ; 
Who  love  the  arts  that  man  exalt  to  heaven, 
George  loves  them  also,  when  they  're  given 

To  four-legged  Gentry,  christened  dog  and  pig.* 

Whose  deeds  in  this  our  wonder-hunting  nation 

Prove  what  a  charming  thing  is  education. 

Full  of  the  art  of  brewing  beer, 

The  monarch  heard  of  Mr.  Whitbread's  fame  : 
Qnoth  he  unto  the  queen  "  My  dear,  my  dear, 

Whitbread  hath  got  a  marvelous  great  name ; 
Chaiiy,  we  must,  must,  must  see  Whitbread  brew — 
Rich  as  us,  Charly,  richer  than  a  Jew : 
Shame,  shame,  we  have  not  yet  his  brewhouse  seen  !" 
Thus  sweetly  said  the  king  unto  the  queen  ' 

Red-hot  with  novelty's  delightful  rage, 
To  Mr.  Whitbread  forth  he  sent  a  page, 

To  say  that  majesty  proposed  to  view, 
With  thirst  of  wondrous  knowledge  deep  inflamed, 
His  vats,  and  tubs,  and  hops,  and  hogsheads  famed, 

And  learn  the  noble  secret  how  to  brew. 

Of  such  undreamt-of  honor  proud, 
Most  .reverently  the  brewer  bowed; 
So  humbly  (so  the  humble  story  goes,) 
He  touched  even  terra  firma  with  his  nose ; 

Then  said  unto  the  page,  hight  Billy  Ramus, 

"  Happy  are  we  that  our  great  king  should  name  us, 

As  worthy  unto  majesty  to  show, 

How  we  poor  Chiswell  people  brew.1' 

•  The  dancing  dogs  and  wise  pig  have  farmed  a  considerable  part  of  the  royal 
museraont. 


372  PARODIES     AND    BUKLESQUES. 

Away  sprung  Billy  Rainus  quick  as  thought, 
To  majesty  tha  welcome  tidings  brought, 

How  Whitbread,  staring,  stood  like  any  stake, 
And  trembled — then  the  civil  things  he  said — 
On  which  the  king  did  smile  and  nod  his  head  : 

For  monarchs  like  to  see  their  subjects  quake  : 

Such  horrors  unto  kings  most  pleasant  are, 
Proclaiming  reverence  and  humility  :  • 

High  thoughts,  too,  all  those  shaking  fits  declare 
Of  kingly  grandeur  and  great  capability  ! 

People  of  worship,  wealth,  and  birth, 
Look  on  the  humbler  sons  of  earth, 

Indeed  in  a  most  humble  light,  GTod  knows ! 
High  stations  are  like  Dover's  towering  cliffs, 
Where  ships  below  appear  like  little  skiffs, 

While  people  walking  on  the  strand  like  crows. 

Muse,  sing  the  stir  that  Mr.  Whitbread  made ; 
Poor  gentleman !  most  terribly  afraid 

He  should  not  charm  enough  his  guests  divine : 
He  gave  his  maids  new  aprons,  gowns  and  smocks ; 
And  lo !  two  hundred  pounds  were  spent  in  frocks, 

To  make  the  apprentices  and  draymen  fine  : 

Busy  as  horses  in  a  field  of  clover, 

Dogs,  cats,  and  chairs,  and  stools,  were  tumbled  over, 

Amid  the  Whitbread  rout  of  preparation, 

To  treat  the  lofty  ruler  of  the  nation. 

Now  moved  king,  queen,  and  princesses  so  grand, 
To  visit  the  first  brewer  in  the  land; 
Who  sometimes  swills  his  beer  and  grinds  his  meat 
In  a  snug  corner  christened  Chiswell-street  ; 
But  oftener  charmed  with  fashionable  air, 
Amid  the  gaudy  great  of  Portman-square. 

Lord  Aylesbury,  and  Denbigh's  Lord  also, 
His  grace  the  Duke  of  Montague  likewise, 

With  Lady  Harcourt  joined  the  raree-show, 
And  fixed  all  Smithfield's  marveling  eyes : 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  373 

For  lo  !  a  greater  show  ne'er  graced  those  quarters, 
Since  Mary  roasted,  just  like  crabs,  the  martyrs. 

Arrived,  the  king  broad  grinned,  and  gave  a  nod 
To  smiling  Whitbread,  who,  had  God 

Come  with  his  angels  to  behold  his. beer, 
With  more  respect  he  never  could  have  met-  - 
Indeed  the  man  was  in  a  sweat, 

So  much  the  brewer  did  the  king  revere. 

Her  majesty  contrived  to  make  a  dip  : 
Light  as  a  feather  then  the  king  did  skip, 
And  asked  a  thousand  questions,  with  a  laugh, 
Before  poor  Whitbread  comprehended  half. 

Reader,  my  Ode  should  have  a  simile — 
Well,  in  Jamaica,  on  a  tamarind  tree, 

Five  hundred  parrots,  gabbling  just  like  Jews, 
I  've  seen — such  noise  the  feathered  imps  did  make, 
As  made  my  very  pericranium  ache — 

Asking  and  telling  parrot  news : 

Thus  was  the  brewhouse  filled  with  gabbling  noise, 
Whilst  draymen  and  the  brewer's  boys, 

Devoured  the  questions  that  the  king  did  ask : 
In  different  parties  were  they  staring  seen, 
Wondering  to  think  they  saw  a  king  and  queen ! 

Behind  a  tub  were  some,  and  some  behind  a  cask. 

Some  draymen  forced  themselves  (a  pretty  luncheon) 

Into  the  mouth  of  many  a  gaping  puncheon  ; 

And  through  the  bung-hole  winked  with  curious  eye, 

To  view,  and  be  assured  what  sort  of  things 

Were  princesses,  and  queens,  and  kings, 
For  whose  most  lofty  station  thousands  sigh ! 
And  lo !  of  all  the  gaping  puncheon  clan, 
Few  were  the  mouths  that  had  not  got  a  man ! 

Now  majesty  into  a  pump  so  deep 
Did  with  an  opera-glass  so  curious  peep  : 
Examtning  with  care  each  wondrous  matter 
That  brought  up  water  ! 


374  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Thus  have  I  seen  a  magpie  in  the  street, 
A  chattering  bird  we  often  meet, 
A  bird  for  curiosity  well  known ; 

With  head  awry, 

And  cunning  eye, 
Peep  knowingly  into  a  marrow-bone. 

And  now  his  curious  majesty  did  stoop 

To  count  the  nails  on  every  hoop  ; 

And,  lo !  no  single  thing  came  in  his  way, 

That,  full  of  deep  research,  he  did  not  say, 

"  What 's  this !  hae,  hse  ?  what 's  that  ?  what 's  this  ?  what 's 

that?" 

So  quick  the  words,  too,  when  he  deigned  to  speak, 
As  if  each  syllable  would  break  his  neck. 

Thus,  to  the  world  of  great  whilst  others  crawl, 
Our  sovereign  peeps  into  the  world  of  small ; 
Thus  microscopic  genuises  explore 

Things  that  too  oft  provoke  the  public  scorn. 
Yet  swell  of  useful  knowledges  the  store, 

By  finding  systems  in  a  pepper-corn. 

Now  boasting  Whitbread  serious  did  declare, 
To  make  the  majesty  of  England  stare, 
That  he  had  butts  enough,  he  knew, 
Placed  side  by  side,  to  reach  along  to  Kew : 
On  which  the  king  with  wonder  swiftly  cried, 
"  What,  if  they  reach  to  Kew  then,  side  by  side, 

What  would  they  do,  what,  what,  placed  end  to  end  ?*' 
To  whom  with  knitted,  calculating  brow, 
The  man  of  beer  most  solemnly  did  vow, 

Almost  to  Windsor  that  they  would  extend ; 
On  which  the  king,  with  wondering  mien, 
Repeated  it  unto  the  wondering  queen : 
On  which,  quick  turning  round  his  haltered  head, 
The  brewer's  horse,  with  face  astonished  neighed ; 
The  brewer's  dog  too  poured  a  note  of  thunder, 
Rattled  his  chain,  and  wagged  liis  tail  for  wonder. 

Now  did  the  king  for  other  beers  inquire, 
For  Calvert's,  Jordan's,  Thrale's  entire ; 


PA  BODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  375 

And,  after  talking  of  these  different  beers, 
Asked  Whitbread  if  his  porter  equalled  theirs  ? 

This  was  a  puzzling,  diagreeing  question ; 
Grating  like  arsenic  on  his  host's  digestion  : 
A  kind  of  question  to  the  man  of  cask, 
That  not  even  Solomon  himself  would  ask. 

Now  majesty,  alive  to  knowledge,  took 
A  very  pretty  memorandum-book, 
With  gilded  leaves  of  asses'  skin  so  white, 
And  in  it  legibly  began  to  write — 

Memorandum. 

A  charming  place  beneath  the  grates 
For  roasting  chestnuts  or  potates. 

Mem. 

'Tis  hops  that  give  a  bitterness  to  beer — 

Hops  grow  in  Kent,  says  Whitbread,  and  elsewhere. 

Qucere. 

Is  there  no  cheaper  stuff?  where  doth  it  dwell  ? 
Would  not  horse-aloes  bitter  it  as  well  ? 

Mem. 

To  try  it  soon  on  our  small  beer — 
'T  will  save  us  several  pound  a  year. 

Mem. 

To  remember  to  forget  to  ask 

Old  Whitbread  to  my  house  one  day. 

Mem. 

Not  to  forget  to  take  of  beer  the  cask, 
The  brewer  offered  me,  away. 

Now  having  penciled  his  remarks  so  shrewd, 

Sharp  as  the  point  indeed  of  a  new  pin, 
His  majesty  his  watch  most  sagely  viewed, 

And  then  put  up  his  asses'  skin. 


376  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES, 

To  Whitbread  now  deigned  majesty  to  say, 
"  Whitbread,  are  all  your  horses  fond  of  hay  I" 
"  Yes,  please  your  majesty,"  in  humble  notes, 
The  brewer  answered — "  also,  sir,  of  oats : 
Another  thing  my  horses  too  maintains, 
And  that,  an't  please  your  majesty,  are  grains." 


"  Grains,  grains,"  said  majesty,  "  to  nil  their  crops  ? 
Grains,  grams  ? — that  comes  from  hops — yes,  hops,  hops  ? 
hops  ?" 

Here  was  the  king,  like  hounds  sometimes,  at  fault — 
"  Sire,"  cried  the  humble  brewer,  "  give  me  leave 
Your  sacred  majesty  to  undeceive ; 

Grains,  sire,  are  never  made  from  hops,  but  malt." 

"  True,"  said  the  cautious  monarch,  with  a  smile : 
"  From  malt,  malt,  malt — I  meant  malt  all  the  while." 
"  Yes,"  with  the  sweetest  bow,  rejoined  the  brewer, 
"  An't  please  your  majesty,  you  did,  I  'm  sure." 
"  Yes,"  answered  majesty,  with  quick  reply, 
"I  did,  I  did,  I  did  I,  I,  I,  I." 

Now  this  was  wise  in  Whitbread — here  we  find 

A  very  pretty  knowledge  of  mankind ; 

As  monarchs  never  must  be  in  the  wrong, 

'T  was  really  a  bright  thought  in  Whitbread's  tongue, 

To  tell  a  little  fib,  or  some  such  thing, 

To  save  the  sinking  credit  of  a  king. 

Some  brewers,  in  a  rage  of  information, 
Proud  to  instruct  the  ruler  of  a  nation, 

Had  on  the  folly  dwelt,  to  seem  damned  clever ! 
Now,  what  had  been  the  consequence  ?     Too  plain ! 
The  man  had  cut  his  consequence  in  twain ; 

The  king  had  hated  the  wise  fool  forever ! 

Reader,  whene'er  thou  dost  espy  a  nose 

That  bright  with  many  a  ruby  glows, 

That  nose  thou  mayest  pronounce,  nay  safely  swear, 

Is  nursed  on  something  better  than  small-beer. 


PA.  BODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  377 

Thus  v.  lien  them  findest  kings  in  brewing  wise, 

Or  natural  history  holding  lofty  station, 
Thou  mayest  conclude,  with  marveling  eyes, 

Such  kings  have  had  a  goodly  education. 

Now  did  the  king  admire  the  bell  so  fine, 
That  daily  asks  the  draymen  all  to  dine: 
On  which  the  bell  rung  out  (how  very  proper!) 
To  show  it  was  a  bell,  and  had  a  clapper. 

And  now  before  their  sovereign's  curious  eye, 
Parents  and  children,  fine,  fat,  hopeful  sprigs, 

All  snuffling,  squinting,  grunting  in  their  style, 
Appeared  the  brewer's  tribe  of  handsome  pigs : 

On  which  the  observant  man,  who  fills  a  throne, 

Declared  the  pigs  were  vastly  like  his  own : 

On  which  the  brewer,  swallowed  up  in  joys, 
Tears  and  astonishment  in  both  his  eyes, 
His  soul  brim  full  of  sentiments  so  loyal, 

Exclaimed,  "  0  heavens  !  and  can  my  swine 

Be  deemed  by  majesty  so  fine ! 

Heavens!  can  my  pigs  compare,  sire,  with  pigs  royal!" 
To  which  the  king  assented  with  a  nod  ; 
On  which  the  brewer  bowed,  and  said,  "  Good  God !" 
Then  winked  significant  on  Miss ; 
Significant  of  wonder  and  of  bliss ; 

Who,  bridling  in  her  chin  divine, 
Crossed  her  fair  hands,  a  dear  old  maid, 
And  then  her  lowest  courtesy  made 

For  such  high  honor  done  her  father's  swine. 

Now  did  his  majesty  so  gracious  say 
To  Mr.  Whitbread,  in  his  flying  way, 

"  Whitbread,  d'ye  nick  the  excisemen  now  and  then  ? 
Hae,  Whitbread,  when  d'ye  think  to  leave  off  trade  ? 
Hae  ?  what  ?  Miss  Whitbread's  still  a  maid,  a  maid  ? 

What,  what's  the  matter  with  the  men  ? 

"  D'ye  hunt! — has,  hunt?  No,  no,  you  are  too  old — 
You  '11  be  lord  mayor — lord  mayor  one  day — 

Yes,  yes,  I  've  heard  so — yes,  yes,  so  I  'm  told  : 
Don't,  don't  the  fine  for  sheriff  pay  ? 


378  PARODIES    AXD    BURLESQUES. 

I  '11  prick  you  every  year,  man,  I  declare : 

Yes,  Whitbread — yes,  yes — you  shall  be  lord  mayor. 

"  Whitbread,  d'ye  keep  a  coach,  or  job  one,  pray  ? 

Job,  job,  that's  cheapest;  yes,  that's  best,  that's  best. 
You  put  your  liveries  on  the  draymen — hae  ? 
Has,  Whitbread  ?  you  have  feather' d  well  your  nest. 
What,  what's  the  price  now,  hae,  of  all  your  stock  ? 
But,  Whitbread,  what's  o'clock,  pray,  what's  o'clock  ?" 

Now  Whitbread  inward  said,  "  May  I  be  cursed 
If  I  know  what  to  answer  first;" 

Then  searched  his  brains  with  ruminating  eye : 
But  e'er  the  man  of  malt  an  answer  found, 
Quick  on  his  heel,  lo,  majesty  turned  round, 

Skipped  off,  and  baulked  the  pleasure  of  reply. 

Kings  in  inquisitiveness  should  be  strong — 

From  curiosity  doth  wisdom  flow : 
For  'tis  a  maxim  I  Ve  adopted  long, 

The  more  a  man  inquires,  the  more  he  '11  know. 

Header,  didst  ever  see  a  water-spout  ? 

'Tis  possible  that  thou  wilt  answer,  "  No." 
Well  then !  he  makes  a  most  infernal  rout ; 

Sucks,  like  an  elephant,  the  waves  below, 
With  huge  proboscis  reaching  from  the  sky, 
As  if  he  meant  to  drink  the  ocean  dry : 
At  length  so  full  he  can't  hold  one  drop  more — 
He  bursts — down  rush  the  waters  with  a  roar 
On  some  poor  boat,  or  sloop,  or  brig,  or  ship, 
And  almost  sinks  the  wand'rer  of  the  deep  : 
Thus  have  I  seen  a  monarch  at  reviews, 
Suck  from  the  tribe  of  officers  the  news, 
Then  bear  in  triumph  off  each  wondrous  matter, 
And  souse  it  on  the  queen  with  such  a  clatter ! 

I  always  would  advise  folks  to  ask  questions : 
For,  truly,  questions  are  the  keys  of  knowledge : 

Soldiers,  who  forage  for  the  mind's  digestions, 
Cut  figures  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  at  college  ; 

Make  chancellors,  chief  justices,  and  judges, 

Even  of  the  lowest  green-bag  drudges. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  379 

The  sages  say,  Dame  Truth  delights  to  dwell, 
Strange  mansion  !  in  the  bottom  of  a  well, 
Questions  are  then  the  windlass  and  the  rope 
That  pull  the  grave  old  gentlewoman  up : 
Damn  jokes  then,  and  unmannerly  suggestions, 
Reflecting  upon  kings  for  asking  questions. 

Now  having  well  employed  his  royal  lungs 

On  nails,  hoops,  staves,  pumps,  barrels,  and  their  bungs, 

The  king  and  Co.  sat  down  to  a  collation 

Of  flesh  and  fish,  and  fowl  of  every  nation. 

Dire  was  the  clang  of  plates,  of  knife  and  fork, 

That  merciless  fell  like  tomahawks  to  work, 

And  fearless  scalped  the  fowl,  the  fish,  and  cattle, 

While  Whitbread,  in  the  rear,  beheld  the  battle. 

The  conquering  monarch,  stopping  to  take  breath 
Amidst  the  regiments  of  death, 

Now  turned  to  Whitbread  with  complacence  round, 
And,  merry,  thus  addressed  the  man  of  beer : 
"  Whitbread,  is 't  true  ?  I  hear,  I  hear, 

You  're  of  an  ancient  family — renowned — 
What  ?  what  ?  I  'm  told  that  you  're  a  limb 
Of  Pym,  the  famous  fellow  Pym  : 
What  Whitbread,  is  it  true  what  people  say  ? 
Son  of  a  round-head  are  you  ?  hse  ?  hce  ?  hae  ? 
I  'm  told  that  you  send  Bibles  to  }7our  votes — 

A  snuffling  round-headed  society — 
Prayer-books  instead  of  cash  to  buy  them  coats — 

Bunyans,  and  Practices  of  Piety : 
Your  Bedford  votes  would  wish  to  change  their  fare — 
Rather  see  cash — yes,  yes — than  books  of  prayer. 
Thirtieth  of  January  don't  you  feed  ? 
Yes,  yes,  you  eat  calf  s  head,  you  eat  calf  s  head." 

Now  having  wonders  done  on  flesh,  fowl,  fish, 

Whole  hosts  o'erturned — and  seized  on  all  supplies ; 

The  royal  visitors  expressed  a  wish 

To  turn  to  House  of  Buckingham  their  eyes. 

But  first  the  monarch,  so  polite, 

Asked  Mr.  Whitbread  if  he  'd  be  a  knight. 


380  PARODIES    AND     BUELESQUES 

Unwilling  in  the  list  to  be  enrolled, 
Whitbread  contemplated  the  knights  of  Peg, 
Then  to  his  generous  sovereign  made  a  leg, 

And  said,  "  He  was  afraid  he  was  too  old. 
He  thanked  however  his  most  gracious  king, 
For  offering  to  make  him  such  a  thing" 

But,  ah !  a  different  reason  't  was  I  fear ! 
It  was  not  age  that  bade  the  man  of  beer 

The  proffered  honor  of  the  monarch  shun : 
The  tale  of  Margaret's  knife,  and  royal  fright, 
Had  almost  made  him  damn  the  nam-e  of  knight, 

A  tale  that  farrowed  such  a  world  of  fun. 

He  mocked  the  prayer  too  by  the  king  appointed, 

Even  by  himself  the  Lord's  Anointed  : — 

A  foe  to  fast  too,  is  he,  let  me  tell  ye; 

And  though  a  Presbyterian,  can  not  thimV 
Heaven  (quarrelling  with  meat  and  drink) 

Joys  in  the  grumble  of  a  hungry  belly ! 

Now  from  the  table  with  Caesarean  air 

Up  rose  the  monarch  with  his  laureled  brow, 

When  Mr.  Whitbread,  waiting  on  his  chair, 

Expressed  much  thanks,  much  joy,  and  made  a  bow. 

Miss  Whitbread  now  so  quick  her  curtsies  drops, 

Thick  as  her  honored  father's  Kentish  hops  ; 

Which  hop-like  curtsies  were  returned  by  dips 

That  never  hurt  the  royal  knees  and  hips ; 

For  hips  and  knees  of  queens  are  sacred  things, 

That  only  bend  on  gala  days 
Before  the  best  of  kings, 

When  odes  of  triumph  sound  his  praise. — 

Now  through  a  thundering  peal  of  kind  huzzas. 
Proceeding  some  from  hired*  and  unhired  jaws, 

*  When  his  majesty  goes  to  a  play-house,  or  brew-house,  or  parliament,  the 
Lord  Chamberlain  provides  some  pounds'  worth  of  mob  to  huzza  their  bt-loved 
monarch.  At  the  play-house  about  forty  wide-mouthed  fellows  are  hired  on  the 
night  of  their  majesties'  appearance,  at  two  shillings  and  sixpence  per  head,  with 
the  liberty  of  seeing  the  play  gratis.  These  Stcntor*  are  placed  In  different  part* 
of  the  theater,  who,  immediately  on  the  royal  entry  into  the  stage- box,  eet  up 
their  howl  of  loyalty ;  to  whom  their  majesties,  with  sweetest  smiles,  acknowledj;* 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

The  raree-show  thought  proper  to  retire  ; 
Whilst  Whitbread  and  his  daughter  fail- 
Surveyed  all  Chiswell-street  with  lofty  air ; 

For,  lo  !  they  felt  themselves  some  six  feet  higher ' 


Such,  Thomas,  is  the  way  to  write! 
Thus  shouldst  thou  birth-day  songs  indite; 
Then  stick  to  earth,  and  leave  the  lofty  sky : 
No  more  of  ti  turn  turn,  and  ti  turn  ti. 

Thus  should  an  honest  laureate  write  of  kings — 

Not  praise  them  for  imaginary  things  • 

I  own  I  can  not  make  my  stubborn  rhyme 

Call  every  king  a  character  sublime; 

For  conscience  will  not  suffer  me  to  wander 

So  very  widely  from  the  paths  of  candor. 

I  know  full  well  some  kings  are  to  be  seen, 

To  whom  my  verse  so  bold  would  give  the  spleen. 

Should  that  bold  verse  declare  they  wanted  brains. 
I  won't  say  that  they  never  brains  possessed — 
They  may  have  been  with  such  a  present  blessed, 

And  therefore  fancy  that  some  still  remains ; 

For  every  well-experienced  surgeon  knows, 
That  men  who  with  their  legs  have  parted, 

Swear  that  they  've  felt  a  pain  in  all  their  toes, 
And  often  at  the  twinges  started ; 

They  stared  upon  their  oaken  stumps  in  vain ! 

Fancying  the  toes  were  all  come  back  again. 

If  men,  then,  who  their  absent  toes  have  mourned, 
Can  fancy  those  same  toes  at  times  returned ; 
So  kings,  in  matters  of  intelligences, 
May  fancy  they  have  stumbled  on  their  senses. 

Yes,  Tom — mine  is  the  way  of  writing  ode — 
Why  liftest  thou  thy  pious  eyes  to  God ! 

the  obligation  by  a  genteel  bow,  and  an  elegant  curtesy.  This  congratulatory 
noise  of  the  Stentors  is  looked  on  by  many,  particularly  country  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,  as  an  infallible  thermometer,  that  ascertains  the  warmth  of  the  national 
regard.— P.  P. 


382  PARODIES    A:SD    BURLESQUES. 

Strange  disappointment  in  thy  looks  I  read ; 

And  now  I  hear  thee  in  proud  triumph  cry, 
"  Is  this  an  action,  Peter,  this  a  deed 

To  raise  a  monarch  to  the  sky  ? 
Tubs,  porter,  pumps,  vats,  all  the  Whitbread  throng, 
Rare  things  to  figure  in  the  Muse's  song !" 

Thomas,  I  here  protest,  I  want  no  quarrels 

On  kings  and  brewers,  porter,  pumps,  and  barrels — 

Far  from  the  dove-like  Peter  be  such  strife, 
But  this  I  tell  thee,  Thomas,  for  a  fact — 
Thy  Caesar  never  did  an  act 

More  wise,  more  glorious  in  his  life. 

Now  God  preserve  all  wonder-hunting  kings, 

Whether  at  Windsor,  Buckingham,  or  Kew-house 

And  may  they  never  do  more  foolish  things 

Than  visiting  Sam  Whitbread  and  his  brewhouse. 


THE    AUTHOR    AND    THE    STATESMAN 

[ADDRESSED  BY  FIELDING  TO  SIR  ROBERT  VTALPOLE.] 

WHILE  at  the  helm  of  state  you  ride, 
Our  nation's  envy,  and  its  pride  ; 
While  foreign  courts  with  wonder  gaze, 
And  curse  those  councils  which  they  praise  ; 
Would  you  not  wonder,  sir,  to  view 
Your  bard  a  greater  man  than  you  ? 
Which  that  he  is  you  can  not  doubt, 
When  you  have  read  the  sequel  out. 

You  know,  great  sir,  that  ancient  fellows, 
Philosophers,  and  such  folks,  tell  us, 
No  great  analogy  between 
Greatness  and  happiness  is  seen. 
If  then,  as  it  might  follow  straight. 
Wretched  to  be,  is  to  be  great; 
Forbid  it,  gods,  that  you  should  try 
What  'tis  to  be  so  great  as  I ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  383 

The  family  that  dines  the  latest, 
Is  in  our  street  esteem'd  the  greatest; 
But  latest  hours  must  surely  fall 
'Fore  him  who  never  dines  at  all. 

Your  taste  in  architect,  you  know, 
Hath  been  admired  by  friend  and  foe  : 
But  can  your  earthly  domes  compare 
With  all  my  castles — in  the  air  ? 

We  're  often  taught  it  doth  behoove  us 
To  think  those  greater  who  're  above  us : 
Another  instance  of  my  glory, 
Who  live  above  you,  twice  two  story ; 
And  from  my  garret  can  look  down 
On  the  whole  street  of  Arlington. 

Greatness  by  poets  still  is  painted 
With  many  followers  acquainted  : 
This  too  doth  in  my  favor  speak ; 
Your  levee  is  but  twice  a  week ; 
From  mine  I  can  exclude  but  one  day, 
My  door  is  quiet  on  a  Sunday. 

Nor  in  the  manner  of  attendance, 
Doth  your  great  bard  claim  less  ascendance. 
Familiar  you  to  admiration 
May  be  approached  by  all  the  nation ; 
While  I,  like  the  Mogul  in  Indo, 
Am  never  seen  but  at  my  window. 
If  with  my  greatness  you  're  offended, 
The  fault  is  easily  amended  ; 
For  I  '11  come  down,  with  wondrous  eu-  e, 
Into  what  ever  place  you  please. 
I  'm  not  ambitious ;  little  matters 
Will  serve  us  great,  but  humble  creatures. 

Suppose  a  secretary  o'  this  isle, 
Just  to  be  doing  with  a  while  ; 
Admiral,  gen'ral,  judge,  or  bishop  : 
Or  I  can  foreign  treaties  dish  up. 
If  the  good  genius  of  the  nation 
Should  call  me  to  negotiation, 


384  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES, 

Tuscan  and  French  are  in  my  head, 
Latin  I  write,  and  Greek — I  read. 


If  you  should  ask,  what  pleases  best  ? 
To  get  the  most,  and  do  the  least 
What  fittest  for  ? — You  know,  I'  in  sure ; 
I  'm  fittest  for — a  sine-cure. 


THE  FRIEND   OF    HUMANITY    AND   THE    KNIFE- 
GRINDER.* 

ANTI-JACOBIN. 
FRIEND   OF   HUMAMTY.t 

"  NEEDY  Knife-grinder !  whither  are  you  going  ? 
Rough  is  the  road,  your  wheel  is  out  of  order — 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ;  your  hat  has  got  a  hole  in  't, 
So  have  your  breeches ! 

*  Some  stanzas  of  the  original  poem,  by  Southey,  are  here  subjoined: 
THE  WIDOW. 

8APPUIC8. 

Cold  was  the  night  wind  ;  drifting  fast  the  snows  fell ; 
Wide  were  the  downs,  and  shelterless  and  naked  ; 
When  a  poor  wand'rer  struggled  on  her  journey, 
Weary  and  way- sore. 

Drear  were  the  downs,  more  dreary  her  reflections  ; 
Cold  was  the  night  wind,  colder  was  her  bosom  : 
She  had  no  home,  the  world  was  all  before  her, 
She  had  no  shelter. 

Fast  o'er  the  heath  a  chariot  rattled  by  her : 
"  Pity  mo !"  feebly  cried  the  poor  night  wanderer, 
"Pity  me,  strangers!  lest  with  cold  and  hunger 
Here  I  should  perish." 

t  The  "  Friend  of  Humanity"  was  intended  for  ME.  TIEBNET,  M.  P.  for  South- 
wark,  who  in  early  times  was  among  the  more  forward  of  the  Reformers.  "  He 
was,"  says  Lord  Brougham,  "an  assiduous  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends  of 
the  People,  and  drew  up  the  much  and  justly  celebrated  Petition  in  which  that 
useful  body  laid  before  the  House  of  Commons  all  the  more  striking  particulars 
of  its  defective  title  to  the  office  of  representing  the  people,  which  that  House 
then,  as  now,  but  with  far  less  reason,  assumed. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  385 

"  Weary  Knife-grinder !  little  think  the  proud  ones, 
Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
road,  what  hard  work  'tis  crying  all  day  '  Knives  and 
"  '  Scissors  to  grind  0 !' 

'  Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to  grind  knives  ? 
Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire  ?  or  parson  of  the  parish  ? 
Or  the  attorney? 

"  Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game  ?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining  ? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a  lawsuit  ? 

"  (Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by  Tom  Paine  ?) 
Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story." 

KNIFE-GRINDER. 

"  Story !  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell,  sir, 
Only  last  night  a-drinking  at  the  Chequers, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  you  see,  were 
Torn  in  a  scuffle. 

"  Constables  came  up,  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ;  they  took  me  before  the  justice  ; 
Justice  Oldrnixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 

Sto'-ks  for  a  vagrant. 

u  I  should  b§  glad  to  drink  your  Honor's  health  in 
A  pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence  ; 
But  for  my  part,  I  never  love  to  meddle 

With  politics,  sir." 

FRIEND    OF    HUMANITY. 

"  /  give  thee  sixpence  !  I  will  see  thee  damned  first — 
Wretch !  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse  to  vengeance — 
Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 

Spiritless  outcast !" 

[Backs  the  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and  exit  in  a  transport  of  Repub 
lican  enthusiasm  and  universal  philanthropy.] 

17 


386  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES, 


INSCRIPTION 

FOE   THE    DOOR    OF    THE    CELL    IN    NEWGATE,    WHERE    MRS.  BROWN- 

RIGG,     THE     'PRENTICE-CIDE     WAS     CONFINED     PREVIOUS  TO     HER 
EXECUTION.* 

FROM    THE    ANTI- JACOBIN.  1797. 

FOR  one  long  term,  or  e'er  her  trial  came, 

Here  BROWNRIGG  linger'd.     Often  have  these  cells 

Echoed  her  blasphemies,  as  with  shrill  voice 

She  screamed  for  fresh  Geneva.     Not  to  her 

Did  the  blithe  fields  of  Tothill,  or  thy  street, 

St.  Giles,  its  fair  varieties  expand  ; 

Till  at  the  last,  in  slow-drawn  cart  she  went 

To  execution.     Dost  thou  ask  her  crime  ? 

SHE  WHIPP'D  TWO  FEMALE  'PRENTICES  TO  DEATH, 

AND  HID  THEM  IN  THE  COAL-HOLE.     For  her  mind 

Shaped  strictest  plans  of  discipline.     Sage  schemes ! 

Such  as  Lycurgus  taught,  when  at  the  shrine 

Of  the  Or  thy  an  goddess  he  bade  flog 

The  little  Spartans ;  such  as  erst  chastised 

Our  Milton,  when  at  college.     For  this  act 

Did  Brownrigg  swing.     Harsh  laws !     But  time  shall  come 

When  France  shall  reign,  and  laws  be  all  repeal' d  ! 

'INSCRIPTION    BY   SOU  THEY 

FOB  TUB  APAETMENT  IN  OIIETSTOW  CASTLE,  WHEBE  HEXBY   MAETEN,  THE  REGICIDE, 
WAS  IMPRISONED  THIRTY  YEAB8. 

FOE  thirty  years,  secluded  from  mankind,  • 

Here  MARTKN  lingered.     Often  have  these  walls 

Echoed  his  footsteps,  as  with  even  tread 

He  paced  around  his  prison :  not  to  him 

Did  Nature's  fair  varieties  exist ; 

He  never  saw  the  sun's  delightful  beams, 

Save  when  through  yon  high  bars  he  pour'd  a  sad 

And  broken  splendor.     Dost  thou  ask  his  crime  ? 

He  had  REBELL'D  AGAINST  THE  KINO,  AND  B  \T 

IN  JUDGMENT  ON  HIM  ;  for  his  ardent  mind 

Shaped  goodliest  plans  of  happiness  on  earlh, 

And  peacn  and  liberty.     Wild  dreams !  but  such 

As  Plato  loved  ;  such  as  with  holy  zeal 

Our  Milton  worshipM.     Bless'd  hopes!   awhile 

From  man  withheld,  oven  to  the  latter  days 

When  Christ  shall  come,  and  all  things  be  fulfill1  d ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  387 


SONG.* 

SUNG  BY  ROGERO  IN  THE  BURLESQUE  PLAY  OF  "  THE  UOVER." 
FROM  THE  ANTI- JACOBIN,  1798. 

CANNING. 
I. 

WHENE'ER  with  haggard  eyes  I  view 
This  dungeon  that  I  'm  rotting  in, 
I  think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[Weeps,  and  pulls  out  a  blue  kerchief,  with  which  he  wipes  his 
eyes ;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds — 

II. 

Sweet  kerchief,  check'd  with  heavenly  blur, 

Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in  ! — 
Alas !  Matilda  then  was  true  ! 
At  least  I  thought  so  at  the  U — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottiugen. 

[At  the  repetition  of  this  line  Rogero  clanks  his  chains  in  cadence. 
III. 

Barbs !  Barbs  !  alas!  how  swift  you  flew 

Her  neat  post-wagon  trotting  in  ! 
Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 
Forlorn  I  languish' d  at  the  U — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

IV. 

This  faded  form !  this  pallid  hue  I 
This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in, 

*  There  is  a  curious  circumstance  connected  with  the  composition  of  this  song, 
the  first  five  stanzas  of  which  were  written  by  Mr.  Canning.  Having  been  acci 
dentally  seen,  previous  to  its  publication,  by  Mr.  Pitt,  who  was  cognizant  of  the 
proceedings  of  the  "  Anti-Jacobin"  writers,  he  was  so  amused  with  it,  that  he 
took  up  a  pen  and  composed  the  last  stanza  on  the  spot. 


388  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES 

My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I  entered  at  the  U — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

v. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 
Sweet !  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen ! 
Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu — 
— tor,  law  professor  at  the  U — 

— niversity  at  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 


Sun,  moon  and  thou,  vain  world,  adieu. 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in  ; 
Here  dooin'd  to  starve  on  water  gru — 
— el,  never  shall  I  see  the  U — 

— niversity  of  Gottingen — 
— niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[During  the  last  stanza  Rogero  dashes  his  head  repeatedly  against  the  walls  of  his 
prison;  and,  finally,  so  hard  as  to  produce  a  visible  contusion;  he  then  throws 
himself  on  the  floor  in  an  agony.  The  curtain  drops ;  the  music  still  continuing 
to  play  till  it  is  wholly  fallen. 


THE  AMATORY  SONNETS  OF  AKEL  SHUFFLE- 
BOTTOM. 

ROBERT  SODTHEY. 
I. 
DELIA  AT  PLAY. 

SHE  held  a  Cup  and  Ball  of  ivory  white, 
Less  white  the  ivory  than  her  snowy  hand  ! 
Enrapt,  I  watched  her  from  my  secret  stand, 
As  now,  intent,  in  innocent  delight, 
Her  taper  fingers  twirled  the  giddy  ball, 
Now  tost  it,  following  still  with  EAGLE  sight, 
Now  on  the  pointed  end  infixed  its  fall. 
Marking  her  sport  I  mused,  and  musing  sighed. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  089 

Methought  the  BALL  she  played  with  was  my  HEART  ; 
(Alas  !  that  sport  like  that  should  be  her  pride  1) 
And  the  keen  point  which  steadfast  still  she  eyed 
Wherewith  to  pierce  it,  that  was  Cupid's  dart; 
Shall  I  not  then  the  cruel  Fair  condemn 
Who  on  that  dart  IMPALES  my  BOSOM'S  GEM  ? 

II. 

THE   POET   PROVES   THE    EXISTENCE    OF   A   SOUL   FRQM   HIS   LOVE    FOR 
DELIA. 

Some  have  denied  a  soul !     THEY  NEVER  LOVED. 
Far  from  my  Delia  now  by  fate  removed, 
At  home,  abroad,  I  view  her  everywhere : 
Her  ONLY  in  the  FLOOD  OF  NOON  I  see, 
My  Goddess-Maid,  my  OMNIPRESENT  FAIR. 
For  LOVE  annihilates  the  world  to  me  I 
And  when  the  weary  SOL  around  his  bed 
Closes  the  SABLE  CURTAINS  of  the  night, 
SUN  OF  MY  SLUMBERS,  on  my  dazzled  sight 
She  shines  confest.     When  every  sound  is  dead, 
The  SPIRIT  OF  HER  VOICE  comes  then  to  roU 
The  surge  of  music  o'er  my  wavy  brain. 
Far,  far  from  her  my  Body  drags  its  chain, 
But  sure  with  Delia  /  exist  A  SOUL  ! 

in. 

THE  POET  EXPRESSES  HIS  FEELINGS  RESPECTING  A  PORTRAIT  IN 
DELIA'S  PARLOR. 

I  would  I  were  that  portly  gentleman 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane, 
Who  hangs  in  Delia's  parlor  !     For  whene  'er 
From  book  or  needlework  her  looks  arise, 
On  him  converge  the  SUN-BEAMS  of  her  eyes, 
And  he  unblamed  may  gaze  upon  MY  FAIR, 
And  oft  MY  FAIR  his  favored  form  surveys. 

0  HAPPY  PICTURE!  still  on  HER  to  gaze; 

1  envy  him !  and  jealous  fear  alarms, 

Lest  the  STRONG  glance  of  those  divinest  charms 
WARM  HIM  TO  LIFE,  as  in  the  ancient  days, 
When  MARBLE  MELTED  in  Pygmalion's  arms. 
I  would  I  were  that  portly  gentleman, 
With  gold-laced  hat  and  golden-headed  cane ! 


390  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 


THE  LOVE  ELEGIES  OF  ABEL  SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 

ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 
I. 

THE   POET    RELATES    HOW   HE    OBTAINED     DELIA'S     POCKET-HANDKEU- 
CHIEF. 

'Tis  mine !  what  accents  can  my  joy  declare  ? 

Blest  be  the  pressure  of  the  thronging  rout ! 
Blest  be  the  hand  so  hasty  of  rny  fair, 

That  left  the  tempting  corner  hanging  out ! 

I  envy  not  the  joy  the  pilgrim  feels, 

After  long  travel  to  some  distant  shrine, 
When  at  the  relic  of  his  saint  he  kneels, 

For  Doha's  POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF  is  MINE. 

When  first  with  filching  fingers  I  drew  near, 
Keen  hopes  shot  tremulous  through  every  vein ; 

And  when  the  finished  deed  removed  my  fear, 
Scarce  could  my  bounding  heart  its  joy  contain. 

What  though  the  EIGHTH  COMMANDMENT  rose  to  mind, 
It  only  served  a  moment's  qualm  to  move ; 

For  thefts  like  this  it  could  not  be  designed — 

THE  eighth  commandment  WAS  NOT  MADE  FOR  LOVE  ! 

Here,  when  she  took  the  maccaroons  from  me, 

She  wiped  her  mouth  to  clear  the  crumbs  so  sweet ! 

Dear  napkin !  yes,  she  wiped  her  lips  on  thee ! 
Lips  sweeter  than  the  maccaroons  she  eat. 

And  when  she  took  that  pinch  of  Moccabaw, 

That  made  my  love  so  delicately  sneeze, 
Thee  to  her  Roman  nose  applied  I  saw, 

And  thou  art  doubly  dear  for  things  like  these. 
/ 

No  washerwoman's  filthy  hand  shall  e'er, 

SWEET  POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF!  thy  worth  profane; 

For  thou  hast  touched  the  rubies  of  my  fair, 
And  I  will  kiss  thee  o'er  and  o'er  again. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  391 

II. 

THE    POET    EXPATIATES    ON    THE    BEAUTY    OF    DELIA'S    HAIR. 

The  comb  between  whose  ivory  teeth  she  strains 
The  straightning  curls  of  gold  so  beamy  bright, 

Not  spotless  merely  from  the  touch  remains, 
But  issues  forth  more  pure,  more  milky  white. 

The  rose  pomatum  that  the  FRISEUR  spreads 
Sometimes  with  honored  fingers  for  my  fair, 

No  added  perfume  on  her  tresses  sheds, 
But  borrows  sweetness  from  her  sweeter  hair. 

Happy  the  FRISEUR  who  in  Delia's  hair 

With  licensed  fingers  uncontrolled  may  rove  I 

And  happy  in  his  death  the  DANCING  BEAR, 
Who  died  to  make  pomatum  for  my  love. 

Oh  could  I  hope  that  e'er  my  favored  lays 

Might  curl  those  lovely  locks  with  conscious  pride, 

Nor  Hammond,  nor  the  Mantuan  shepherd's  praise, 
I  'd  envy  them,  nor  wish  reward  beside. 

Cupid  has  strung  from  you,  0  tresses  fine, 
The  bow  that  in  my  breast  impell'd  his  dart ; 

From  you,  sweet  locks  !  he  wove  the  subtile  line 
Wherewith  the  urchin  angled  for  MY  HEART. 

Fine  are  my  Delia's  tresses  as  the  threads 

That  from  the  silk-worm,  self-interred,  proceed ; 

Fine  as  the  GLEAMY  GOSSAMER  that  spreads 
His  filmy  net-work  o'er  the  tangled  mead. 

Yet  with  these  tresses  Cupid's  power,  elate, 

My  captive  heart  has  handcuff' d  in  a  chain. 
Strong  as  the  cables  of  some  huge  first-rate, 

THAT  BEARS  BRITANNIA'S  THUNDERS  O'ER  THE  MAIN. 

The  SYLPHS  that  round  her  radiant  locks  repair, 
Inflowing  luster  bathe  their  bright'ning  wings; 

And  ELFIN  MINSTRELS  with  assiduous  care, 
The  ringlets  rob  for  FAIRY  FIDDLESTRINGS. 


392  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

ILL 

THE    POET    RELATES    HOW    HE    STOLE    A    LOCK    OF   DELIA'S     HAIR,    AND 
HER    ANGER. 

Oh !  be  the  day  accurst  that  gave  me  birth ! 

Ye  Seas !  to  swallow  me,  in  kindness  rise  ! 
Fall  on  me,  mountains !  and  thou  merciful  earth, 

Open,  and  hide  me  from  my  Delia's  eyes. 

Let  universal  Chaos  now  return, 

Now  let  the  central  fires  their  prison  burst, 

And  EARTH,  and  HEAVEN,  and  AIR,  and  OCEAN  burn, 
For  Delia  frowns.     SHE  FROWNS,  and  I  am  curst. 

Oh !  I  could  dare  the  fury  of  the  fight, 

Where  hostile  MILLIONS  sought  my  single  life  ; 

Would  storm  VOLCANOES,  BATTERIES,  with  delight, 
And  grapple  with  GRIM  DEATH  in  glorious  strife. 

Oh !  I  could  brave  the  bolts  of  angry  JOVE, 

When  ceaseless  lightnings  fire  the  midnight  skies  ; 

What  is  7m  wrath  to  that  of  HER  I  love  ? 
What  is  his  LIGHTNING  to  my  Delia's  eyes  ? 

Go,  fatal  lock !  I  cast  thee  to  the  wind ; 

Ye  serpent  CURLS,  ye  poison  tendrils,  go  I 
Would  I  could  tear  thy  memory  from  my  mind, 

ACCURSED  LOCK  ;  thou  cause  of  all  my  woe ! 

Seize  the  CURST  CURLS,  ye  Furies,  as  they  fly ! 

Demons  of  darkness,  guard  the  infernal  roll, 
That  thence  your  cruel  vengeance,  when  I  die, 

May  knit  the  KNOTS  OF  TORTURE  for  WJ/-SOUL. 

Last  night — Oh  hear  me,  heaven,  and  grant  my  prayer  ! 

The  BOOK  OF  FATE  before  thy  suppliant  lay, 
And  let  me  from  its  ample  records  tear 

Only  the  single  PAGE  OF  YESTERDAY  ! 

Or  let  me  meet  OLD  TIME  upon  his  flight, 

And  I  will  STOP  HIM  on  his  restless  way ; 
Omnipotent  in  love's  resistless  might, 

FU  force  him,  back  the  ROAD  OF  YISTKRDAY. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  393 

Last  night,  as  o'er  the  page  of  love's  despair, 

My  Delia  bent  deliriously  to  grieve, 
I  stood  a  treacherous  loiterer  by  her  chair, 

And  drew  the  FATAL  SCISSORS  from  my  sleeve : 

And  would  at  that  instant  o'er  my  thread 

The  SHEARS  OF  ATROPOS  had  opened  then ; 
And  when  I  reft  the  lock  from  Delia's  head, 

Had  cut  me  sudden  from  the  sons  of  men ! 

She  heard  the  scissors  that  fair  lock  divide, 
And  while  my  heart  with  transport  parted  big, 

She  cast  a  FURY  frown  on  me,  and  cried, 

u  You  stupid  puppy — you  have  spoiled  my  wig !" 


THE    BABY'S    DEBUT.* 

[A  BURLESQUE    IMITATION    OF    WORDSWORTH. REJECTED    ADDRESSES.] 

JAMES    SMITH. 

[Spoken  in  the  character  of  Nancy  Lake,  a  girl  eight  years  of  age,  who  is  drawn 
upon  the  stage  in  a  child's  chaise  by  Samuel  Hughes,  her  uncle's  porter.] 

MY  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New-year's-day ; 

So  in  Kate  Wilson's  shop 
Papa  (he 's  my  papa  and  Jack's) 
Bought  me,  last  week,  a  doll  of  wax, 

And  brother  Jack  a  top. 
Jack 's  in  the  pouts,  and  this  it  is — 
He  thinks  mine  came  to  more  than  his ; 

So  to  my  drawer  he  goes, 
Takes  out  the  doll,  and,  0,  my  stars  1 
He  pokes  her  head  between  the  bars, 

And  melts  off  half  her  nose  ! 

*  "  The  author  does  not,  in  this  instance,  attempt  to  copy  any  of  the  higher 
attributes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry;  but  has  succeeded  perfectly  in  the  imi 
tation  of  his  mawkish  affectations  of  childish  simplicity  and  nursery  stammering. 
We  hope  it  will  make  him  ashamed  of  his  Alice  Fell,  and  the  greater  part  of  his 
last  volumes — of  which  it  is  by  no  means  a  parody,  but  a  very  fair,  and  indeed  wo 
think  a  flattariug,  imitation." — Edinburg  Review. 

17s*- 


394  PAEODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Quite  cross,  a  bit  of  string  I  beg, 
And  tie  it  to  his  peg-top's  peg, 

And  bang,  with  might  and  main, 
Its  head  against  the  parlor-door  : 
Off  flies  the  head,  and  hits  the  floor, 

And  breaks  a  window-pane. 

This  made  him  cry  with  rage  and  spite : 
Well,  let  him  cry,  it  serves  him  right 

A  pretty  thing,  forsooth! 
If  he 's  to  melt,  all  scalding  hot, 
Half  my  doll's  nose,  and  I  am  not 

To  draw  his  peg-top's  tooth ! 

Aunt  Hannah  heard  the  window  break, 
And  cried,  "  0  naughty  Nancy  Lake, 

Thus  to  distress  your  aunt : 
No  Drury  Lane  for  you  to-day  I" 
And  while  papa  said,  "  Pooh,  she  may!" 

Mamma  said,  "  No,  she  sha'n't !" 

Well,  after  many  a  sad  reproach, 
They  got  into  a  hackney-coach, 

And  trotted  down  the  street. 
I  saw  them  go  :  one  horse  was  blind, 
The  tails  of  both  hung  down  behind, 

Their  shoes  were  on  their  feet. 

The  chaise  in  which  poor  brother  Bill 
Used  to  be  drawn  to  Pentonville, 

Stood  in  the  lumber-room : 
I  wiped  the  dust  from  off  the  top, 
While  Molly  mopped  it  with  a  mop, 

And  brushed  it  with  a  broom. 

My  uncle's  porter,  Samuel  Hughes, 
Came  in  at  six  to  black  the  shoes, 

(I  always  talk  to  Sam  :) 
So  what  does  he,  but  takes,  and  drags 
Me  in  the  chaise  along  the  flags, 

And  leaves  mo  where  I  am. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  395 

My  father's  walls  are  made  of  brick, 
But  not  so  tall  and  not  so  thick 

As  these ;  and,  goodness  me ! 
My  father's  beams  are  made  of  wood, 
But  never,  never  half  so  good 

As  those  that  now  I  see. 

What  a  large  floor !  'tis  like  a  town  ! 
The  carpet,  when  they  lay  it  down, 

Won't  hide  it,  I  '11  be  bound  ; 
And  there  's  a  row  of  lamps  ! — my  eye  ! 
How  they  do  blaze  !     I  wonder  why 

They  keep  them  on  the  ground. 

At  first  I  caught  hold  of  the  wing, 

And  kept  away ;  but  Mr.  Thing 
umbob,  the  prompter  man, 

Gave  with  his  hand  my  chaise  a  shove, 

Anti  said,  "  Go  on,  my  pretty  love  ; 
Speak  to  'em  little  Nan. 

"  You  've  only  got  to  curtsy,  whisp 
er,  hold  your  chin  up,  laugh  and  lisp, 

And  then  you  're  sure  to  take : 
I  've  known  the  day  when  brats,  not  quite 
Thirteen,  got  fifty  pounds  a  night ; 

Then  why  not  Nancy  Lake  ?" 

But  while  I  'm  speaking,  where  's  papa  ? 

And  where's  my  aunt?  and  where  's  mamma? 

Where  's  Jack  ?  0  there  they  sit ! 
They  smile,  they  nod ;  I  '11  go  my  ways, 
And  order  round  poor  Billy's  chaise, 

To  join  them  in  the  pit. 

And  now,  good  gentlefolks,  I  go 
To  join  mamma,  and  see  the  show ; 

So,  bidding  you  adieu, 
I  curtsy  like  a  pretty  miss, 
And  if  you  '11  blow  to  me  a  kiss, 

I  '11  blow  a  kiss  to  you. 

[Blows  a  kiss,  and  exifr.1 


39(5  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 


PLAY-HOUSE    MUSINGS. 

[A   BURLESQUE   IMITATION    QF    COLERIDGE. REJECTED    ADDRESSES.] 

JAMES    SMITH 

MY  pensive  Public,  wherefore  look  you  sad  ? 
I  had  a  grandmother,  she  kept  a  donkey 
To  carry  to  the  mart  her  crockery- ware, 
And  when  that  donkey  looked  me  in  the  face, 
His  face  was  sad !  and  you  are  sad,  my  Public. 

Joy  should  be  yours :  this  tenth  day  of  October 
Again  assembles  us  in  Drury  Lane. 
Long  wept  my  eye  to  see  the  timber  planks 
That  hid  our  ruins ;  many  a  day  I  cried, 
Ah  me  !  I  fear  they  never  will  rebuild  it ! 
Till  on  one  eve,  one  joyful  Monday  eve, 
As  along  Charles-street  I  prepared  to  walk, 
Just  at  the  corner,  by  the  pastrycook's, 
I  heard  a  trowel  tick  against  a  brick. 
I  looked  me  up,  and  straight  a  parapet 
Uprose  at  least  seven  inches  o'er  the  planks. 
Joy  to  thee,  Drury !  to  myself  I  said  : 
He  of  the  Blackfriars'  Road,  who  hymned  thy  downfall 
In  loud  Hosannahs,  and  who  prophesied 
That  flames,  like  those  from  prostrate  Solyma, 
Would  scorch  the  hand  that  ventured  to  rebuild  theo, 
Has  proved  a  lying  prophet.     From  that  hour, 
As  leisure  offered,  close  to  Mr.  Spring's 
Box-office  door,  I  've  stood  and  eyed  the  builders. 
They  had  a  plan  to  render  less  their  labors ; 
Workmen  in  olden  times  would  mount  a  ladder 
With  hodded  heads,  but  these  stretched  forth  a  pole 
From  the  wall's  pinnacle,  they  placed  a  pulley 
Athwart  the  pole,  a  rope  athwart  the  pulley ; 
To  this  a  basket  dangled ;  mortar  and  bricks 
Thus  freighted,  swung  securely  to  the  top, 
And  in  the  empty  basket  workmen  twain 
Precipitate,  unhurt,  accosted  earth. 

Oh  !  't  was  a  goodly  sound,  to  hear  the  people 
Who  watched  the  work,  express  their  various  thoughts  I 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  397 

While  some  believed  it  never  would  be  finished, 
Some,  on  the  contrary,  believed  it  would. 

I  've  heard  our  front  that  faces  Drury  Lane 
Much  criticised ;  they  say  'tis  vulgar  brick- work, 
A  mimic  manufactory  of  floor-cloth. 
One  of  the  morning  papers  wished  that  front 
Cemented  like  the  front  in  Brydges-street ; 
As  now  it  looks,  they  call  it  Wyatt's  Mermaid, 
A  handsome  woman  with  a  fish's  tail. 

White  is  the  steeple  of  St.  Bride's  in  Fleet-street, 
The  Albion  (as  its  name  denotes)  is  white ; 
Morgan  and  Saunders'  shop  for  chairs  and  tables 
Gleams  like  a  snow-ball  in  the  setting  sun  ; 
White  is  Whitehall.     But  not  St.  Bride's  in  Fleet-street, 
The  spotless  Albion,  Morgan,  no,  nor  Saunders, 
Nor  white  Whitehall,  is  white  as  Drury's  face. 

Oh,  Mr.  Whitbread !  fie  upon  you,  sir ! 
I  think  you  should  have  built  a  colonnade  ; 
When  tender  Beauty,  looking  for  her  coach, 
Protrudes  her  gloveless  hand,  perceives  the  shower, 
And  draws  the  tippet  closer  round  her  throat, 
Perchance  her  coach  stands  hah0  a  dozen  off, 
And,  ere  she  mounts  the  step,  the  oozing  mud 
Soaks  through  her  pale  kid  slipper.     On  the  morrow., 
She  coughs  at  breakfast,  and  her  gruff  papa 
Cries,  "  There  you  go !  this  comes  of  playhouses  !" 
To  build  no  portico  is  penny  wise : 
Heaven  grant  it  prove  not  in  the  end  pound  foolish  ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Drury !  Queen  of  Theaters ! 

What  is  the  Regency  in  Tottenham-street, 

The  Royal  Amphitheater  of  Arts, 

Astley's,  Olympic,  or  the  Sans  Pareil, 

Compared  with  thee  ?    Yet  when  I  view  thee  pushed 

Back  from  the  narrow  street  that  christened  thee, 

I  know  not  why  they  call  thee  Drury  Lane. 

Amid  the  freaks  that  modern  fashion  sanctions, 
It  grieves  me  much  to  see  live  animals 
Brought  on  the  stage.     Grimaldi  has  his  rabbit, 
Laurent  his  cat,  and  Bradbury  his  pig ; 


398  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Eie  on  such  tricks !  Johnson,  the  machinist 

Of  former  Drtiry,  imitated  life 

Quite  to  the  life.     The  elephant  in  Blue  Beard, 

Stuffed  by  his  hand,  wound  round  his  lithe  proboscis 

As  spruce  as  he  who  roared  in  Padmanaba.* 

Naught  born  on  earth  should  die.     On  hackney  stands 

I  reverence  the  coachman  who  cries  "  Gee," 

And  spares  the  lash.     When  I  behold  a  spider 

Prey  on  a  fly,  a  magpie  on  a  worm, 

Or  view  a  butcher  with  horn-handled  knife 

Slaughter  a  tender  lamb  as  dead  as  mutton, 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  'm  very,  very  sick ! 

\Emit  Jiastily. 


THE  THEATER.f 

[A   BURLESQUE   IMITATION   OF    CRABBE. — REJECTED    ADDRESSES.] 

JAMES    SMITH. 

Interior  of  a  Theater  described.— Pit  gradually  fills.— The  Check-taker.— Pit 
fulL— The  Orchestra  tuned.— One  Fiddle  rather  dilatory.— Is  reproved— and 
repents.— Evolutions  of  a  Play-bill.— Its  final  Settlement  on  the  Spikes.— The 
Gods  taken  to  task — and  why. — Motley  Group  of  Play-goers. — Holywell-street, 
St.  Pancras. — Ernanuel  Jennings  binds  his  Son  apprentice — not  in  London — and 
why.— Episode  of  the  Hat. 

'Tis  sweet  to  view,  from  half-past  five  to  six, 
Our  long  wax-candles,  with  short  cotton  wicks, 
Touched  by  the  lamplighter's  Promethean  art, 
Start  into  light,  and  make  the  lighter  start  ; 

*  "  Padmanaba,"  viz.,  in  a  pantomime  called  Harlequin  in  Padmanaba.  This 
elephant,  some  years  afterward,  was  exhibited  over  Exeter  'Change,  where  it 
was  found  necessary  to  destroy  the  poor  animal  by  discharges  of  musketry. 
When  he  made  his  entrance  in  the  pantomime  above-mentioned,  Johnson,  the 
machinist  of  the  rival  house,  exclaimed,  "  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  I  could  not 
make  a  better  elephant  than  that!" 

t  "  '  The  Theater,'  by  the  Rev.  G.  Crabbe,  we  rather  think,  is  th.e  best  piece  in 
the  collection.  It  is  an  exquisite  and  most  masterly  imitation,  not  only  of  the 
peculiar  style,  but  of  the  tasto,  temper,  and  manner  of  description  of  that  most 
original  author.  *  *  It  does  not  aim,  of  course,  at  any  shadow  of  his  pathos 
or  moral  sublimity,  but  seems  to  us  to  be  a  singularly  faithful  copy  of  his  pas 
sages  of  mero  description."— Edinburci  Review. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  399 

To  see  red  Phoebus  through  the  gallery-pane 
Tinge  with  his  beams  the  beams  of  Drury  Lane  ; 
While  gradual  parties  fill  our  widened  pit, 
And  gape,  and  gaze,  and  wonder,  ere  they  sit. 

At  first,  while  vacant  seats  give  choice  and  ease, 
Distant  or  near,  they  settle  where  they  please ; 
But  when  the  multitude  contracts  the  span, 
And  seats  are  rare,  they  settle  where  they  can. 

Now  the  full  benches  to  late  comers  doom 
No  room  for  standing,  miscalled  standing-room. 

Hark !  the  check-taker  moody  silence  breaks, 
And  bawling  "  Pit  full !"  gives  the  checks  he  takes  ; 
Yet  onward  still  the  gathering  numbers  cram, 
Contending  crowders  shout  the  frequent  damn, 
And  all  is  bustle,  squeeze,  row,  jabbering,  and  jam. 

See  to  their  desks  Apollo's  sons  repair — 
Swift  rides  the  rosin  o'er  the  horse's  hair ! 
In  unison  their  various  tones  to  tune, 
Murmurs  the  hautboy,  growls  the  coarse  bassoon ; 
In  soft  vibration  sighs  the  whispering  lute, 
Tang  goes  the  harpsichord,  too-too  the  flute, 
Brays  the  loud  trumpet,  squeaks  the  fiddle  sharp, 
Winds  the  French  horn,  and  twangs  the  tingling  harp ; 
Till,  like  great  Jove,  the  leader,  fingering  in, 
Attunes  to  order  the  chaotic  din. 
Now  all  seems  hushed — but,  no,  one  fiddle  will 
Give  half-ashamed,  a  tiny  flourish  still. 
Foiled  in  his  clash,  the  leader  of  the  clan 
Reproves  with  frowns  the  dilatory  man : 
Then  on  his  candlestick  thrice  taps  his  bow, 
Nods  a  new  signal,  and  away  they  go. 

Perchance,  while  pit  and  gallery  cry  "  Hats  off!" 
And  awed  Consumption  checks  his  chicled  cough, 
Some  giggling  daughter  of  the  Queen  of  Love 
Drops,  'reft  of  pin,  her  play-bill  from  above : 


400  PARODIES    AND    BUKLESQUES. 

Like  Icarus,  while  laughing  galleries  clap, 

Soars,  ducks,  and  dives  in  air  the  printed  scrap ; 

But,  wiser  far  than  he,  combustion  fears, 

And,  as  it  flies,  eludes  the  chandeliers ; 

Till,  sinking  gradual,  with  repeated  twirl, 

It  settles,  curling,  on  a  fiddler's  curl ; 

Who  from  his  powdered  pate  the  intruder  strikes, 

And,  for  mere  malice,  sticks  it  on  the  spikes. 

Say,  why  these  Babel  strains  from  Babel  tongues  ? 
Who 's  that  calls  "  Silence !"  with  such  leathern  lungs  ? 
He  who,  in  quest  of  quiet,  "  Silence  !"  hoots, 
Is  apt  to  make  the  hubbub  he  imputes. 

What  various  swains  our  motley  walls  contain ! 
Fashion  from  Moorfields,  honor  from  Chick  Lane ; 
Bankers  from  Paper  Buildings  here  resort, 
Bankrupts  from  Golden  Square  and  Riches  Court ; 
From  the  Haymarket  canting  rogues  in  grain, 
Gulls  from  the  Poultry,  sots  from  Water  Lane ; 
The  lottery  cormorant,  the  auction  shark, 
The  full-price  master,  and  the  half-price  clerk ; 
Boys  who  long  linger  at  the  gallery-door, 
With  pence  twice  five — they  want  but  twopence  more 
Till  some  Samaritan  the  two-pence  spares, 
And  sends  them  jumping  up  the  gallery-stairs. 

Critics  we  boast  who  ne'er  their  malice  balk, 
But  talk  their  minds — we  wish  they  'd  mind  their  talk  : 
Big-worded  bullies,  who  by  quarrels  live — 
Who  give  the  lie,  and  tell  the  he  they  give ; 
Jews  from  St.  Mary's  Ax,  for  jobs  so  wary, 
That  for  old  clothes  they  'd  even  ax  St.  Mary ; 
And  bucks  with  pockets  empty  as  their  pate, 
Lax  in  their  gaiters,  laxer  in  their  gait ; 
Who  oft,  when  we  our  house  lock  up,  carouse 
With  tippling  tipstaves  in  a  lock-up  house. 

Yet  here,  as  elsewhere,  Chance  can  joy  bestow, 
Where  scowling  fortune  seemed  to  threaten  woe. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  401 

v 

John  Richard  William  Alexander  Dwyer 
Was  footman  to  Justinian  Stubbs,  Esquire ; 
But  when  John  Dwyer  listed  in  the  Blues, 
Emanuel  Jennings  polished  Stubb's  shoes. 
Emanuel  Jennings  brought  his  youngest  boy 
Up  as  a  corn-cutter — a  safe  employ ; 
In  Holy  well  Street,  St.  Pancras,  he  was  bred 
(At  number  twenty-seven,  it  is  said), 
Facing  the  pump,  and  near  the  Granby's  Head : 
He  would  have  bound  him  to  some  shop  in  town, 
But  with  a  premium  he  could  not  come  down. 
Pat  was  the  urchin's  name — a  red  haired  youth, 
Fonder  of  purl  and  skittle-grounds  than  truth. 


Silence,  ye  gods !  to  keep  your  tongue  in  awe, 
The  Muse  shall  tell  an  accident  she  saw. 


Pat  Jennings  in  the  upper  gallery  sat, 
But,  leaning  forward,  Jennings  lost  his  hat : 
Down  from  the  gallery  the  beaver  flew, 
And  spurned  the  one  to  settle  in  the  two. 
How  shall  he  act  ?     Pay  at  the  gallery-door 
Two  shillings  for  what  cost,  when  new,  but  four  ? 
Or  till  half-price,  to  save  his  shilling,  wait, 
And  gain  his  hat  again  at  half-past  eight  ? 
Now,  while  his  fears  anticipate  a  thief, 
John  Mullins  whispers,  "  Take  my  handkerchief." 
"  Thank  you,"  cries  Pat ;  "  but  one  won't  make  a  line." 
"  Take  mine,"  cries  Wilson ;  and  cries  Stokes,  "  Take  mine." 
A  motley  cable  soon  Pat  Jennings  ties, 
Where  Spitalfields  with  real  India  vies. 
Like  Iris'  bow,  down  darts  the  painted  clew, 
Starred,  striped,  and  spotted,  yellow,  red,  and  bine, 
Old  calico,  torn  silk,  and  muslin  new. 
George  Green  below,  with  palpitating  hand 
Loops  the  last  'kerchief  to  the  beaver's  band — 
Up  soars  the  prize !     The  youth,  with  joy  unfeigned, 
Regained  the  felt,  and  felt  the  prize  regained ; 
While  to  the  applauding  galleries  grateful  Pat 
Made  a  low  bow,  and  touched  the  ransomed  hat. 


402  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES. 


A    TALE    OF    DRURY    LANE.* 

[A   BURLESQUE    OF   SIR   WALTER   SCOTl's   METRICAL    ROMANCES. 
REJECTED    ADDRESSES.] 

HORACE    SMITH. 

[To  be  spoken  by  Mr.  Kemble,  in  a  suit  of  the  Black  Prince's  Armor,  borrowed 
from  the  Tower.] 

« 

SURVEY  this  shield,  all  bossy  bright — 
These  cuisses  twin  behold ! 
Look  on  my  form  in  armor  dight 
Of  steel  inlaid  with  gold ; 
My  knees  are  stiff  in  iron  buckles, 
Stiff  spikes  of  steel  protect  my  knuckles. 
These  once  belonged  to  sable  prince, 
Who  never  did  in  battle  wince ; 
With  valor  tart  as  pungent  quince, 

He  slew  the  vaunting  Gaul. 
Rest  there  awhile,  my  bearded  lance, 
While  from  green  curtain  I  advance 
To  yon  foot-lights,  no  trivial  dance, 
And  tell  the  town  what  sad  mischance 

Did  Drury  Lane  befall. 


THE    NIGHT. 

On  fair  Augusta's  towers  and  trees 

Flittered  the  silent  midnight  breeze, 

Curling  the  foliage  as  it  past, 

Which  from  the  moon-tipped  plumage  cast 

A  spangled  light,  like  dancing  spray, 

Then  reassumed  its  still  array ; 

When,  as  night's  lamp  unclouded  hung, 

And  down  its  full  effulgence  flung, 

*  "  From  the  parody  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  we  know  not  what  to  select — it  is  all 
good.  The  effect  of  the  fire  on  the  town,  and  the  description  of  a  fireman  in  his 
official  apparel,  may  be  quoted  as  amusing  specimens  of  the  misapplication  of 
the  style  and  meter  of  Mr.  Scott's  admirable  romances." — Quarterly  RerJ-.-n'. 

"  '  A  Tale  of  Drury,'  by  Walter  Scott,  is,  upon  the  whole,  admirably  exo 
cuted  ;  though  the  introduction  is  rather  tame.  The  burning  is  described  with 
the  mighty  minstrel's  characteristic  love  of  localities.  The  catastrophe  is  de 
scribed  with  a  spirit  not  unworthy  of  the  name  so  venturously  assumed  by  the 
describer."— Edinburg  Review. 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  403 

It  shed  such  soft  and  balmy  power 

That  cot  and  castle,  hall  and  bower, 

And  spire  and  dome,  and  turret  height, 

Appear'd  to  slumber  in  the  light. 

From  Henry's  chapel,  Rums'  Hall, 

To  Savoy,  Temple,  and  St.  Paul, 

From  Knightsbridge,  Pancras,  Camden  Town, 

To  Redriff  Shadwell,  Horsleydown, 

No  voice  was  heard,  no  eye  unclosed, 

But  all  in  deepest  sleep  reposed. 

They  might  have  thought,  who  gazed  around 

Amid  a  silence  so  profound, 

It  made  the  senses  thrill, 
That  't  was  no  place  inhabited, 
But  some  vast  city  of  the  dead — 

All  was  so  hushed  and  still. 


THE    BURNING. 

As  chaos,  which,  by  heavenly  doom, 
Had  slept  in  everlasting  gloom, 
Started  with  terror  and  surprise 
When  light  first  flashed  upon  her  eyes — 
So  London's  sons  in  night-cap  woke, 

In  bed-gown  woke  her  dames ; 
For  shouts  were  heard  'mid  fire  and  smoke, 
And  twice  ten  hundred  voices  spoke — 
"  The  playhouse  is  in  flames !" 
And,  lo  !  where  Catharine  street  extends, 
A  fiery  tail  its  luster  lends 

To  every  window-pane ; 

Blushes  each  spout  in  Martlet  Court, 
And  Barbican,  moth-eaten  fort, 
And  Covent  Garden  kennels  sport, 

A  bright  ensanguined  drain  ; 
Meux's  new  brewhouse  shows  the  light, 
Rowland  Hill's  chapel,  and  the  height 

Where  patent  shot  they  sell ; 
The  Tennis-Court,  so  fair  and  tall, 
Partakes  the  ray,  with  Surgeons'  Hall, 
The  ticket^porters'  house  of  call, 


404  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES 

Old  Bedlam,  close  by  London  Wall, 
Wright's  shrimp  and  oyster  shop  withal, 

And  Richardson's  Hotel. 
Nor  these  alone,  but  far  and  wide, 
Across  red  Thames's  gleaming  tide, 
To  distant  fields  the  blaze  was  borne, 
And  daisy  white  and  hoary  thorn 
In  borrowed  luster  seemed  to  sham 
The  rose  of  red  sweet  Wil-li-am. 
To  those  who  on  the  hills  around 
Beheld  the  flames  from  Drury's  mound, 

As  from  a  lofty  altar  rise, 
It  seemed  that  nations  did  conspire 
To  offer  to  the  god  of  fire 

Some  vast  stupendous  sacrifice ! 
The  summoned  firemen  woke  at  call, 
And  hied  them  to  their  stations  all : 
Starting  from  short  and  broken  snooze, 
Each  sought  his  pond'rous  hobnailed  shoes, 
But  first  his  worsted  hosen  plied, 
Plush  breeches  next,  in  crimson  dyed, 

His  nether  bulk  embraced  ; 
Then  jacket  thick,  of  red  or  blue, 
Whose  massy  shoulder  gave  to  view 
The  badge  of  each  respective  crew, 

In  tin  or  copper  traced. 
The  engines  thundered  through  the  street, 
Fire-hook,  pipe,  bucket,  all  complete, 
And  torches  glared,  and  clattering  feet 

Along  the  pavement  paced. 
And  one,  the  leader  of  the  band, 
From  Charing  Cross  along  the  Strand, 
Like  stag  by  beagles  hunted  hard, 
Ran  till  he  stopped  at  Vin'gar  Yard. 
The  burning  badge  his  shoulder  bore, 
The  belt  and  oil-skin  hat  he  wore, 
The  cane  he  had,  his  men  to  bang, 
Showed  foreman  of  the  British  gang — 
His  name  was  Higginbottom.     Now 
'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  how 

The  others  came  in  view : 
The  Hand-in-Hand  (h«i  race  begun, 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Then  came  the  Phoenix  and  the  Sun, 
Th'  Exchange,  where  old  insurers  run, 

The  Eagle,  where  the  new  ; 
With  these  came  Rumford,  Bumford,  Cole, 
Robins  from  Hockley  in  the  Hole, 
Lawson  and  Dawson,  cheek  by  jowl, 
Crump  from  St.  Giles's  Pound  : 
Whitford  and  Mitford  joined  the  train, 
Huggins  and  Muggins  from  Chick  Lane 
And  Clutterbuck,  who  got  a  sprain 

Before  the  plug  was  found. 
Hobson  and  Jobson  did  not  sleep, 
But  ah !  no  trophy  could  they  reap 
For  both  were  in  the  Donjon  Keep 
Of  Bridewell's  gloomy  mound  I 
E'en  Higginbottom  now  was  posed, 
For  sadder  scene  was  ne'er  disclosed , 
Without,  within,  in  hideous  show, 
Devouring  flames  resistless  glow, 
And  blazing  rafters  downward  go, 
And  never  halloo  "  Heads  below !" 

Nor  notice  give  at  all. 
The  firemen  terrified  are  slow 
To  bid  the  pumping  torrent  flow, 
For  fear  the  roof  would  fall. 
Back,  Robins,  back;  Crump,  stand  aloof! 
Whitford,  keep  near  the  walls ! 
Huggins,  regard  your  own  behoof, 
For  lo  !  the  blazing  rocking  roof 
Down,  down,  in  thunder  fall? ! 
An  awful  pause  succeeds  the  stroke, 
And  o'er  the  ruins  volumed  smoke, 
Rolling  around  its  pitchy  shroud, 
Concealed  them  from  th'  astonished  crowd. 
At  length  the  mist  awhile  was  cleared, 
When,  lo !  amid  the  wreck  upreared, 
Gradually  a  moving  head  appeared, 

And  Eagle  firemen  knew 
'T  was  Joseph  Muggins,  name  revered, 

The  foreman  of  their  crew. 
Loud  shouted  all  in  signs  of  woe, 
"  A  Muggins !  to  the  rescue,  ho !" 


405 


406  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

And  poured  the  hissing  tide : 
Meanwhile  the  Muggins  fought  amain, 
And  strove  and  struggled  all  in  vain, 
For,  rallying  but  to  fall  again, 

He  tottered,  sunk,  and  died ! 

Did  none  attempt,  before  he  fell, 
To  succor  one  they  loved  so  well  ? 
Yes,  Higginbottom  did  aspire 
(His  fireman's  soul  was  all  on  fire). 

His  brother  chief  to  save ; 
But  ah  !  his  reckless  generous  ire 

Served  but  to  share  his  grave  ! 
'Mid  blazing  beams  and  scalding  streams, 
Through  fire  and  smoke  he  dauntless  broke, 

Where  Muggins  broke  before. 
But  sulphury  stench  and  boiling  drench 
Destroying  sight  o'erwhelmed  him  quite, 

He  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 
Still  o'er  his  head,  while  Fate  he  braved, 
His  whizzing  water-pipe  he  waved ; 
"  Whitford  and  Mitford,  ply  your  pumps, 
You,  Clutterbuck,  come,  stir  your  stumps, 
Why  are  you  in  such  doleful  dumps  ? 
A  fireman,  and  afraid  of  bumps ! — 
What  are  they  fear'd  on  ?  fools  :  'od  rot  'em  I" 
Were  the  last  words  of  Higginbottom. 


THE    REVIVAL. 

Peace  to  his  soul!  new  prospects  bloom, 
And  toil  rebuilds  what  fires  consume ! 
Eat  we  and  drink  we,  be  our  ditty, 
"Joy  to  the  managing  committee!" 
Eat  we  and  drink  we,  join  to  rum 
Roast  beef  and  pudding  of  the  plum ; 
Forth  from  thy  nook,  John  Homer,  come, 
With  bread  of  ginger  brown  thy  thumb, 

For  this  is  Drury's  gay  day : 
Roll,  roll  thy  hoop,  and  twirl  thy  tops, 
And  buy,  to  glad  thy  smiling  chops, 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  407 

Crisp  parliament  with  lollypops, 

And  fingers  of  the  Lady. 
Didst  mark,  how  toiled  the  busy  train, 
From  morn  to  eve,  till  Drury  Lane 
Leaped  like  a  roebuck  from  the  plain  ? 
Ropes  rose  and  sunk,  and  rose  again, 

And  nimble  workmen  trod ; 
To  realize  bold  Wyatt's  plan 
Rushed  may  a  howling  Irishman; 
Loud  clattered  many  a  porter-can, 
And  many  a  ragamuffin  clan, 

With  trowel  and  with  hod. 
Drury  revives !  her  rounded  pate 
Is  blue,  is  heavenly  blue  with  slate  ; 
She  "  wings  the  midway  air,"  elate, 

As  magpie,  crow,  or  chough ; 
White  paint  her  modish  visage  smears, 
Yellow  and  pointed  are  her  ears. 
No  pendant  portico  appears 
Dangling  beneath,  for  Whitbread's  shears 

Have  cut  the  bauble  off. 
Yes,  she  exalts  her  stately  head ; 
And,  but  that  solid  bulk  outspread, 
Opposed  you  on  your  onward  tread, 
And  posts  and  pillars  warranted 
That  all  was  true  that  Wyatt  said, 
You  might  have  deemed  her  walls  so  thii:k, 
Were  not  composed  of  stone  or  brick, 
But  all  a  phantom,  all  a  trick, 
Of  brain  disturbed  and  fancy-sick, 
So  high  she  soars,  so  vast,  so  quick ! 


408  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 


DRURY'S    DIRGE. 

[BY    LAURA    MATILDA. REJECTED    ADDRESSES.] 

HORACE    SMITH. 

"  You  praise  our  sires :  but  though  they  wrote  with  force, 
Their  rhymes  were  vicious,  and  their  diction  coarse : 
We  want  their  strength,  agreed  ;  but  we  atone 
For  that  and  more,  by  siveetness  all  our  own."— GIFFORD. 

BALMY  zephyrs,  lightly  flitting, 

Shade   me  with  your  azure  wing ; 
On  Parnassus'  summit  sitting, 

Aid  me,  Clio,  while  I  sing. 

Softly  slept  the  dome  of  Drury 

O'er  the  empyreal  crest, 
When  Alecto's  sister-fury 

Softly  slumbering  sunk  to  rest. 

Lo  I  from  Lemnos,  limping  lamely, 

Lags  the  lowly  Lord  of  Fire, 
Cytherea  yielding  tamely 

To  the  Cyclops  dark  and  dire. 

Clouds  of  amber,  dreams  of  gladness, 

Dulcet  joys  and  sports  of  youth, 
Soon  must  yield  to  haughty  sadness, 

Mercy  holds  the  vail  to  Truth. 

See  Erostratus  the  second 

Fires  again  Diana's  fane; 
By  the  Fates  from  Orcus  beckoned, 

Clouds  envelop  Drury  Lane. 

Lurid  smoke  and  frank  suspicion 

Hand  in  hand  reluctant  dance  : 
While  the  god  fulfills  his  mission, 

Chivarly,  resign  thy  lance. 

Hark !  the  engines  blandly  thunder, 

Fleecy  clouds  disheveled  lie, 
And  the  firemen,  mute  with  wonder, 

On  the  son  of  Saturn  cry. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  409 

See  the  bird  of  Ammon  sailing, 

Perches  on  the  engine's  peak, 
And,  the  Eagle  firemen  hailing, 

Soothes  them  with  its  bickering  beak. 


J  uno  saw,  and  mad  with  malice, 
Lost  the  prize  that  Paris  gave  ; 

Jealousy's  ensanguined  chalice, 
Mantling  pours  the  orient  wave. 

Pan  beheld  Patrocles  dying, 
Nox  to  Niobe  was  turned  ; 

From  Busiris  Bacchus  flying, 
Saw  his  Seniele  inurned. 

Thus  fell  Drury's  lofty  glory, 

Leveled  with  the  shuddering  stones ; 
Mars,  with  tresses  black  and  gory, 

Drinks  the  dew  of  pearly  groans. 

Hark  !  what  soft  ^Eolian  numbers 
G-em  the  blushes  of  the  morn  ! 

Break,  Amphion,  break  your  slumbers, 
Nature's  ringlets  deck  the  thorn. 

Ha  !  I  hear  the  strain  erratic 
Dimly  glance  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Raptures  sweet,  and  dreams  ecstatic 
Fire  my  everlasting  soul. 

Where  is  Cupid's  crimson  motion  V 

Billowy  ecstasy  of  woe, 
Bear  me  straight,  meandering  owm, 

Where  the  stagnant  torrents  flo\v. 

Blood  in  every  vein  is  gushing, 
Vixen  vengeance  lulls  my  he:;rt , 

See,  the  Gorgon  gang  is  rushing ! 
Never,  never,  let  us  part ! 
18 


410  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 


WHAT    IS    LIFE? 

BY     "ONE     OF     THE     FANCY." 

BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 
AND  do  you  ask  me,  "  What  is  LIFE?" 

And  do  you  ask  me,  "  What  is  pleasure  ?" 
My  muse  and  I  are  not  at  strife, 

So  listen,  lady,  to  my  measure : — 
Listen  amid  thy  graceful  leisure, 
To  what  is  LIFE,  and  what  is  pleasure. 
'Tis  LIFE  to  see  the  first  dawn  stain 
With  sallow  light  the  window-pane  : 
To  dress — to  wear  a  rough  drab  coat, 
With  large  pearl  buttons  all  afloat 
Upon  the  waves  of  plush :  to  tie 
A  kerchief  of  the  King-cup  dye 
(White  spotted  with  a  small  bird's-eye) 
Around  the  neck,  and  from  the  nape 
Lot  fall  an  easy  fan-like  cape  : 
To  quit  the  house  at  morning's  prime. 
At  six  or  so — about  the  time 
When  watchmen,  conscious  of  the  day 
Puff  out  their  lantern's  rush-light  ray  ; 
Just  when  the  silent  streets  are  strewn 
With  level  shadows,  and  the  moon 
Takes  the  day's  wink  and  walks  aside 
To  nurse  a  nap  till  eventide. 
'Tis  LIFE  to  reach  the  livery  stable, 
Secure  the  ribbons  and  the  day-bitt, 
And  mount  a  gig  that  had  a  spring 
Some  summer's  back :  and  then  take  wing 
Behind  (in  Mr.  Hamlet's  tongue) 
A  jade  whose  "  withers  are  unwrung  ; 
Who  stands  erect,  and  yet  forlorn, 
And  from  a  half-pay  life  of  corn, 
Showing  as  many  points  each  way 
As  Martial's  Epigrammata, 
Yet  who,  when  set  a-going,  goes 
Like  one  undestined  to  repose. 
'Tis  LIFE  to  revel  down  the  road, 
And  queer  each  o'erfraught  chaise's  load , 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  411 

To  rave  and  rattle  at  the  gate, 

And  shower  upon  the  gatherer's  pate 

*Damns  by  the  dozens,  and  such  speeches 

As  well  betokens  one  's  slang  riches : 

To  take  of  Deady's  bright  stark  naked 

A  glass  or  so — 'tis  LIFE  to  take  it !  0 

To  see  the  Hurst  with  tents  encampt  on ; 

Lurk  around  Lawrence's  at  Hampton  ; 

Join  the  flash,  crowd  (the  horse  being  led 

Into  the  yard,  and  clean'd  and  fed)  ; 

Talk  to  Dav'  Hudson,  and  Cy'  Davis 

(The  last  a  fighting  rara  avis), 

And,  half  in  secret,  scheme  a  plan 

For  trying  the  hardy  Gas-light-Man. 

'Tis  LIFE  to  cross  the  laden  ferry, 
With  boon  companions,  wild  and  merry, 
And  see  the  ring  upon  the  Hurst 
With  carts  encircled — hear  the  burst 
At  distance  of  the  eager  crowd. 

Oh,  it  is  LIFE  !  to  see  a  proud 
And  dauntless  man  step,  full  of  hopes, 
Up  to  the  P.  C.  stakes  and  ropes, 
Throw  in  his  hat,  and  with  a  spring. 
G-et  gallantly  within  the  ring; 
Eye  the  wide  crowd,  and  walk  awhile, 
Taking  all  cheerings  with  a  smile  : 
To  see  him  skip — his  well-trained  form, 
White,  glowing,  muscular,  and  warm. 
All  beautiful  in  conscious  power, 
Relaxed  and  quiet,  till  the  hour ; 
His  glossy  and  transparent  frame, 
In  radiant  plight  to  strive  for  fame ! 
To  look  upon  the  clean  shap'd  limb 
In  silk  and  flannel  clothed  trim  ; 
While  round  the  waist  the  'kerchief  tic; I, 
Makes  the  flesh  glow  in  richer  pride. 
'Tis  more  than  LIFE,  to  watch  him  hold 
His  hand  forth,  tremulous  yet  bold, 
Over  his  second's,  and  to  clasp 
His  rival's  in  a  quiet  grasp  ; 
To  watch  the  noble  attitude 
He  takes — the  crowd  in  breathless  mood  : 


412  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

And  then  to  see,  with  adamant  start, 
The  muscles  set,  and  the  great  heart 
Hurl  a  courageous  splendid  light 
Into  the  eye — and  then — the  FIGHT  ! 


FRAGMENTS. 

[BY  A  FKEE-LOVKR.] 

BLACK  WOOD'S    MAGAZINE,    1823. 

THEY  were  not  married  by  a  mattering  priest, 

With  superstitious  rites,  and  senseless  words, 

Out-snuffled  from  an  old  worm-eaten  book, 

In  a  dark  corner  (railed  off  like  a  sheep-pen) 

Of  an  old  house,  that  fools  do  call  a  Church  ! 

Their  altar  was  the  flowery  lap  of  earth — 

The  starry  empyrean  their  vast  temple  — 

Their  book  each  other's  eyes — and  Love  liimself, 

Parson,  and  Clerk,  and  Father  to  the  bride  !  — 

Holy  espousals  1  whereat  wept  with  joy 

The  spirit  of  the  universe. — In  sooth 

There  was  a  sort  of  drizzling  rain  that  day, 

For  I  remember  (having  left  at  home 

My  parapluie,  a  name  than  umbrella 

Far  more  expressive)  that  I  stood  for  shelter 

Under  an  entry  not  twelve  paces  off 

(It  might  be  ten)  from  Sheriff  Waithman's  sin    >, 

For  half  an  hour  or  more,  and  there  I  mused 

(Mine  eyes  upon  the  running  kennel  fixrd, 

That  hurried  as  a  het'rogenous  mas.- 

To  the  common  sewer,  it 's  dark  reservoir), 

I  mused  upon  the  running  stream  of  life  ! 

But  that 's  not  much  to  the  purpose — I  was  tiling 
Of  these  most  pure  espousals. — Innocent  pair! 
Ye  were  not  shackled  by  the  vulgar  chains 
About  the  yielding  mind  of  credulous  youth, 
Wound  by  the  nurse  and  priest — your  em; 
Your  unsophisticated  irnpu 
Taught  ye  to  soar  above  their  :>  settled  rules 
Of  Vice  and  Virtue."     Fairest  creature  !     I < 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  413 

Whom  the  world  called  thy  husband,  was  in  truth 

Unworthy  of  thee. — A.  dull  plodding  wretch ! 

With  whose  ignoble  nature  thy  free  spirit 

Held  no  communion. — 'T  was  well  done,  fair  creature  1 

T'  assert  the  independence  of  a  mind 

Created — generated  I  would  say — 

Free  as  "  that  chartered  libertine,  the  air." 

Joy  to  thy  chosen  partner !  blest  exchange  ! 

Work  of  mysterious  sympathy  !  that  drew 

Your  kindred  souls  by  * 


There  fled  the  noblest  spirit ! — The  most  pure, 
Most  sublimated  essence  that  ere  dwelt 
In  earthly  tabernacle.     Gone  thou  art, 
Exhaled,  dissolved,  diffused,  commingled  now 
Into  and  with  the  all-absorbing  frame 
Of  Nature,  the  great  mother.     Ev'n  in  life, 
While  still,  pent-up  in  flesh,  and  skin,  and  bones, 
My  thoughts  and  feelings  like  electric  flame 
Shot  through  the  solid  mass,  toward  the  source, 
And  blended  with  the  general  elements, 
When  thy  young  star  o'er  life's  horizon  hung 
Far  from  it's  zenith  yet  low  lagging  clouds 
(Vapors  of  earth)  obscured  its  heaven-born  rays- 
Dull  joys  of  prejudice  and  superstition 
And  vulgar  decencies  begirt  thee  round  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear  awhile  th'  unholy  bonds 
Of  "  holy  matrimony!"  and  didst  vail 
Awhile  thy  lofty  spirit  to  the  cheat. — 
But  reason  came — and  firm  philosophy, 
And  mild  philanthropy,  and  pointed  out 
The  shame  it  was — the  crying,  crushing  shame, 
To  curb  within  a  little  paltry  pale 
The  love  that  over  all  created  things 
Should  be  diffusive  as  the  atmosphere. 
Then  did  thy  boundless  tenderness  expand 
Over  all  space — all  animated  things 
And  things  inanimate.     Thou  hadst  a  heart, 
A  ready  tear  for  all. — The  dying  whale, 
Stranded  and  gasping — ripped  up  for  his  blubber 
By  Man  the  Tyrant. — The  small  sucking  pig 


414  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Slain  for  his  riot. — The  down-trampled  flower 
Crushed  by  his  cruel  foot. — All,  each,  and  att 
Shared  in  thy  boundless  sympathies,  and  then — 
(Sublime  perfection  of  perfected  love) 
Then  didst  thou  spurn  the  whimp'ring  wailing  thing 
That  dared  to  call  thee  "  husband/'  and  to  claim, 
As  her  just  right,  support  and  love  from  thee — 
Then  didst  thou  *  *  *  * 


THE    CONFESSION. 

BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 
THERE  's  somewhat  on  my  breast  father, 

There 's  somewhat  on  my  breast ! 
The  live-long  day  I  sigh,  father, 

At  night  I  can  not  rest ; 
I  can  not  take  my  rest,  father, 

Though  I  would  fain  do  so, 
A  weary  weight  oppresseth  me — 

The  weary  weight  of  woe  ! 

'Tig  not  the  lack  of  gold,  father 

Nor  lack  of  worldly  gear ; 
My  lands  are  broad  and  fair  to  see, 

My  friends  are  kind  and  dear ; 
My  kin  are  leal  and  true,  father, 

They  mourn  to  see  my  grief, 
But  oh !  'tis  not  a  kinsman's  hand 

Can  give  my  heart  relief ! 

'Tis  not  that  Janet's  false,  father, 

'Tis  not  that  she's  unkind  ; 
Though  busy  flatterers  swarm  around, 

I  know  her  constant  mind. 
'Tis  not  her  coldness,  father, 

That  chills  my  laboring  breast — 
Its  that  confounded  cucumber 

I  've  ate,  and  can't  digest. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  415 


THE  MILLING-MATCH  BETWEEN  ENTELLUS  AND 
DARES. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FIFTH  BOOK  OF  THE  ^ENEID,  BY  ONE 
OF  THE  FANCY. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

WITH  daddies*  high  upraised,  and  nob  held  back, 
In  awful  prescience  of  the  impending  thwack, 
Both  Kiddies\  stood — and  with  prelusive  spar, 
And  light  manoeuvring,  kindled  up  the  war ! 
The  One,  in  bloom  of  youth — a  light-weight  Made — 
The  Other,  vast,  gigantic,  as  if  made, 
Express,  by  Nature  for  the  hammering  trade ; 
But  aged,  slow,  with  stiff  limbs,  tottering  much, 
And  lungs,  that  lack'd  the  'bellows-mender's  touch. 

Yet,  sprightly  to  the  Scratch  both  Buffers  came, 
While  ribbers  rung  from  each  resounding  frame, 
And  divers  digs,  and  many  a  ponderous  pelt, 
Were  on  their  broad  bread-baskets  heard  and  felt. 
With  roving  aim,  but  aim  that  rarely  miss'd, 
Round  lugs  and  ogles  J  flew  the  frequent  fist ; 
While  showers  of  facers  told  so  deadly  well, 
That  the  crush'd  jaw-bones  crackled  as  they  fell ! 
But  firmly  stood  ENTELLUS — and  still  bright, 
Though  bent  by  age,  with  all  THE  FANCY'S  light, 
Stopped  with  a  skill,  and  rallied  with  a  fire 
The  Immortal  FANCY  could  alone  inspire ! 
While  DARES,  shifting  round,  with  looks  of  thought, 
An  opening  to  the  Cove's  huge  carcase  sought 
(Like  General  PRESTON,  in  that  awful  hour, 
When  on  one  leg  he  hopp'd  to — take  the  Tower !) 
And  here,  and  there,  explored  with  active  fin  § 
And  skillful  feint,  some  guardlcss  pass  to  win, 
And  prove  a  boring  guest  when  once  let  in. 
And  now  ENTELLUS,  with  an  eye  that  plann'd 
Punishing  deeds,  liigh  raised  his  heavy  hand, 
But,  ere  the  sledge  came  down,  young  DARES  spied 
His  shadow  o'er  his  brow,  and  slipp'd  aside — 

*  Hands.  t  Fellows,  usually  young  fellows, 

t  Ears  and  Eyes.          §  Arm. 


416  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

So  nimbly  slipp'd,  that  the  vain  nolber  pass'd 

Through  empty  air ;  and  He,  so  high,  so  vast, 

Who  dealt  the  stroke,  came  thundering  to  the  ground ! 

Not  B — CK — GH — M  himself,  with  bulkier  sound, 

Uprooted  from  the  field  of  Whiggish  glories, 

Fell  souse,  of  late,  among  the  astonish'd  Tories ! 

Instant  the  Ring  was  broke,  and  shouts  and  yells 

From  Trojan  Flashmen  and  Sicilian  Swells 

Fill'd  the  wide  heaven — while,  touch'd  with  grief  to  see 

His  pal*  well-known  through  many  a  lark  and  spree,  t 

Thus  rumly  floored,  the  kind  ACESTES  ran, 

And  pitying  raised  from  earth  the  game  old  man, 

Uncow'd,  undamaged  to  the  sport  he  came, 

His  limbs  all  muscle,  and  his  soul  all  flame. 

The  memory  of  his  milling  glories  past, 

The  shame  that  aught  but  death  should  see  him  grass'd, 

All  fired  the  veteran's  pluck — with  fury  flush'rl, 

Full  on  his  light-limb'd  customer  he  rush'd —  .    . 

And  hammering  right  and  left,  with  ponderous  swing, 

Ruffian 'd  the  reeling  youngster  round  the  Ring — 

Nor  rest,  nor  pause,  nor  breathing-time  was  given, 

But,  rapid  as  the  rattling  hail  from  heaven 

Beats  on  the  house-top,  showers  of  RANDALL'S  shot  J 

Around  the  Trojan's  lugs  flew  peppering  hot ! 

Till  now  JSxEAS,  filTd  with  anxious  dread, 

Rush'd  in  between  them,  and,  with  words  well-bred 

Preserved  alike  the  peace  and  DARES'  head, 

Both  which  the  veteran  much  inclined  to  break — 

Then  kindly  thus  the  punislid  youth  bespake  : 

Poor  Johnny  Raw  !  what  madness  could  impel 
So  rum  a  Flat  to  face  so  prime  a  Swell? 
Sees't  thou  not,  boy,  THE  FANCY,  hoavonly  Maid, 
Herself  descends  to  tliis  great  Hammerer's  aid, 
And,  singling  him  from  all  her  flash  adorers, 
Shines  in  his  hits}  and  thunders  in  his  floorers? 
Then,  yield  thee,  youth — nor  such  a  spooney  be, 
To  think  mere  man  can  mitt  a  Deity !" 

Thus  spoke  the  Chief—  and  now,  the  scrimage  o'er, 
His  faithful  pals  the  done-up  DARES  bore 

•  Frinnd.  t  Party  of  pleasure  and  frolic. 

$  A  thorite  blow  of  THE  NOXPABTEL'S,  so  called. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  417 

Back  to  his  home,  with  tottering  gams,  sunk  heart, 

And  muns  and  noddle  pinlcd  in  every  part. 

While  from  his  gob  the  guggling  claret  gush'd, 

And  lots  of  grinders,  from  their  sockets  crush  >!, 

Forth  with  the  crimson  tide  in  rattling  fragments  rush'd! 


NOT    A    SOUS    HAD    HE    GOT. 

[PARODY  ON  WOLFE'S  "BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE."] 

R.  HARRIS  BARHAM. 
NOT  a  sons  had  he  got — not  a  guinea  or  note, 

And  he  looked  confoundedly  flurried, 
As  he  bolted  away  without  paying  his  shot, 
And  the  Landlady  after  him  hurried. 

We  saw  him  again  at  dead  of  night, 

When  home  from  the  Club  returning; 
We  twigg'd  the  Doctor  beneath  the  light 

Of  the  gas-lamp  brilliantly  burning. 

All  bare,  and  exposed  to  the  midnight  dews, 

Reclined  in  the  gutter  we  found  him ; 
And  he  look'd  like  a  gentleman  taking  a  snooze, 

With  his  Marshall  cloak  around  him. 

"  The  Doctor 's  as  drunk  as  the  d ,"  we  said, 

And  we  managed  a  shutter  to  borrow ; 

We  raised  him,  and  sigh'd  at  the  thought  that  his  head 
Whould  "  consumedly  ache"  on  the  morrow. 

We  bore  him  home,  and  we  put  him  to  bed, 
And  we  told  his  wife  and  his  daughter 

To  give  him,  next  morning,  a  couple  of  red 
Herrings,  with  soda-water. — 

Loudly  they  talk'd  of  his  money  that 's  gone, 

And  his  Lady  began  to  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he  reck'd,  so  they  let  him  snore  on 

'Neath  the  counterpane  just  as  we  laid  him. 
18* 


418  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

We  tuck'd  him  in,  and  had  hardly  done 
When,  beneath  the  window  calling, 

We  heard  the  rough  voice  of  a  son  of  a  gun 
Of  a  watchman  "  One  o'clock !"  bawling. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  all  walk'd  down 
From  his  room  in  the  uppermost  story  ; 

A  rushlight  was  placed  on  the  cold  hearth-stone, 
And  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory ! ! 


RAISING    THE    DEVIL. 

A    LEGEND    OF    CORNELIUS    AGRIPPA. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 

"  AND  hast  thou  nerve  enough  ?"  he  said, 
That  gray  Old  Man,  above  whose  head 

Unnumbered  years  have  roll'd — 
"  And  hast  thou  nerve  to  view,"  he  cried, 
"  The  incarnate  Fiend  that  Heaven  defied  ! — 

— Art  thou  indeed  so  bold  ? 

"  Say,  canst  Thou,  with  unshrinking  gaze, 
Sustain,  rash  youth,  the  withering  blaze 

Of  that  unearthly  eye, 
That  blasts  where'er  it  lights — the  breath 
That,  like  the  Simoom,  scatters  death 

On  all  that  yet  can  die  ! 

— "  Barest  thou  confront  that  fearful  form, 
That  rides  the  whirlwind,  and  the  storm, 

In  wild  unholy  revel ! — 
The  terrors  of  that  blasted  brow, 
Archangel's  once — though  ruin'd  now — 

— Ay — dar'st  thou  face  THE  DEVIL  ?" — 

"  I  dare  !"  the  desperate  Youth  replied, 
And  placed  him  by  that  Old  Man's  side, 
In  fierce  and  frantic  glee, 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  410 

Unblenched  his  cheek,  and  firm  his  limb 
— "  No  paltry  juggling  Fiend,  but  HIM  I 
— THE  DEVIL  ! — I  fain  would  see  ! — 


"  In  all  his  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

His  worst,  his  fellest  shape !"  the  Lad 

Rejoined  in  reckless  tone. — 
— "  Have  then  thy  wish !"  Agrippa  said, 
And  sigh'd  and  shook  his  hoary  head, 

With  many  a  bitter  groan. 

He  drew  the  mystic  circle's  bound, 
With  skull  and  cross-bones  feuc'd  around ; 
He  traced  full  many  a  sigil  there ; 
He  mutter'd  many  a  backward  pray'r, 

That  sounded  like  a  curse — 
"  He  comes !" — he  cried  with  wild  grimace, 
"  The  fellest  of  Apollyon's  race  !" 
—Then  in  his  startled  pupil's  face 

He  dash'd — an  EMPTY  PURSE  ! ! 


THE  LONDON   UNIVERSITY;* 

OR,    STINKOMALEE    TRIUMPHANS. 

AN  ODE  TO  HE  PREFORMED  ON  THE  OPENING   OF  THE  NEW   COLLEGE. 

R.    HARRIS    BARHAM. 

WHENE'ER  with  pitying  eye  I  view 
Each  operative  sot  in  town, 

I  smile  to  think  how  wondrous  few 

Get  drunk  who  study  at  the  TJ- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 

What  precious  fools  "  The  People"  grew, 

Their  alma  mater  not  in  town ; 
The  "  useful  classes"  hardly  knew 

*  See  page  387. 


420  PARODIES    AXD     BURLESQUES. 

Four  was  composed  of  two  and  two, 

Until  they  learned  it  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

But  now  they  're  taught  by  JOSEPH  HU 
ME,  by  far  the  cleverest  Scot  in  town, 

Their  items  and  their  tottles  too  ; 

Each  may  dissect  his  sister  Sue, 

From  his  instructions  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 

Then  L E  comes,  like  him  how  few 

Can  caper  and  can  trot  in  town, 

In  pirouette  or  pas  de  deux — 

He  beats  the  famed  Monsieur  Giroux, 

And  teaches  dancing  at  the  TJ- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

And  GILCHRIST,  see,  that  great  Geentoo- 
Professor,  has  a  lot  in  town 

Of  Cockney  boys  who  fag  Hindoo, 

And  larn  Jem-nasties  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 

SAM  R corpse  of  vampire  hue, 

Comes  from  its  grave  to  rot  in  town  ; 
For  Bays  the  dead  bard 's  crowned  with  Yew, 
And  chants,  the  Pleasures  of  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

FRANK  JEFFREY,  of  the  Scotch  Review, — 
Whom  MOORE  had  nearly  shot  in  town, — 

Now,  with  his  pamphlet  stitched  in  blue 

And  yellow,  d — ns  the  other  two, 

But  lauds  the  ever-glorious  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  421 

Great  BIRBECK,  king  of  chips  and  glue, 

Who  paper  oft  does  blot  in  town, 
From  the  Mechanics'  Institu 
tion,  comes  to  prate  of  wedge  and  screw, 
Lever  and  axle  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

LORD  WAITHAM,  who  long  since  withdrew 
From  Mansion  House  to  cot  in  town  ; 

Adorn'd  with  chair  of  ormolu, 

All  darkly  grand,  like  Prince  Lee  Boo, 

Lectures  on  Free  Trade  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

Fat  F ,  with  his  coat  of  blue, 

Who  speeches  makes  so  hot  in  town, 

In  rhetoric,  spells  his  lectures  through, 

And  sounds  the  V  for  W, 

The  vay  they  speaks  it  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

Then  H E  comes,  who  late  at  New 
gate  Market,  sweetest  spot  in  town ! 

Instead  of  one  clerk  popp'd  in  two, 

To  make  a  place  for  his  ne-phew, 

Seeking  another  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

There 's  Captain  Ross,  a  traveler  true, 
Has  just  presented,  what  in  town 
's  an  article  of  great  virtu 
(The  telescope  he  once  peep'd  through, 
And  'spied  an  Esquimaux  canoe 
On  Croker  Mountains),  to  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

Since  MICHAEL  gives  no  roast  nor  stew, 

Where  Whigs  might  eat  and  plot  in  town, 
And  swill  his  port,  and  mischief  brow — 


422  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Poor  CREEVT  sips  his  water  gru 
el  as  the  beadle  of  the  U- 

niversity  we  've  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  've  Got  in  town. 

There 's  JERRY  BENTHAM  and  his  crew, 
Names  ne'er  to  be  forgot  in  town, 

In  swarms  like  Banquo's  long  is-sue — 

Turk,  Papist,  Infidel  and  Jew, 

Come  trooping  on  to  join  the  U- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 

To  crown  the  whole  with  triple  queue — 

Another  such  there 's  not  in  town, 
Twitching  his  restless  nose  askew, 
Behold  tremendous  HARRY  BROUGH 
AM  !  Law  Professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 

Grand  chorus : 

Huzza !  huzza !  for  HARRY  BROUGH 
AM  !  Law  Professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town — 
niversity  we  Ve  Got  in  town. 


DOMESTIC    POEMS. 

THOMAS   HOOD. 
I. 

GOOD-NIGHT. 

THE  sun  was  slumbering  in  the  west,  my  daily  labors  past  ; 
On  Anna's  soft  and  gentle  breast  my  head  reclined  at  last ; 
The  darkness  closed  around,  so  dear  to  fond  congenial  souls  ; 
And  thus  she  murmured  in  my  ear,  "  My  love,  we  're  out  of  coals  I 

"  That  Mister  Bond  has  called  again,  insisting  on  his  rent ; 
And  all  the  Todds  are  coming  up  to  see  us,  out  of  Kent ; 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  423 

I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you  John  has  had  a  tipsy  fall ; — 

I  'm  sure  there 's  something  going  on  with  that  vile  Mary  Hall ! 

"  Mifts  Bell  has  bought  the  sweetest  silk,  and  I  have  bought  the 

rest — 

Of  course,  if  we  go  out  of  town,  Southend  will  be  the  best. 
I  really  think  the  Jones's  house  would  be  the  thing  for  us ; 
I  think  I  told  you  Mrs.  Pope  had  parted  with  her  nus — 

"  Cook,  by  the  way,  came  up  to-day,  to  bid  me  suit  myself— 

And,  what  'd  ye  tliink  ?  the  rats  have  gnawed  the  victuals  on 
the  shelf. 

And,  Lord !  there 's  such  a  letter  come,  inviting  you  to  fight ! 

Of  course  you  don't  intend  to  go — God  bless  you,  dear,  good 
night  1" 


II. 

PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON,  AGED  THREE  YEARS  AND  FIVE 
MONTHS. 

Tnou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear) — 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself! 
(My  love,  he 's  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 

Thou  merry,  laugliing  sprite  ! 

With  spirits  feather-light, 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin — 
(Good  heavens!  the  cliild  is  swallowing  a  pin  !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck  ! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air — 
(The  door !  the  door !  he  '11  tumble  down  the  stair  !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he  '11  set  his  pinafore  afire !) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 
In  Love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents — (Drat  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth  ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 


424  PARODIES     A  X  D     BURLESQUES. 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth, 
(That  dog  will  bite  him  if  he  pulls  its  tail !) 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  elysium  ever  sunny, 
(Another  tumble  ! — that's  his  precious  nose  !) 


Thy  father's  pride  and  hope  ! 
(He  '11  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 
With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature's  mint — 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint  ?) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove  ! 
(He  '11  have  that  jug  off,  with  another  shove  !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  Hymeneal  nestl 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best  ?) 

Little  epitome  of  man  ! 
(He  '11  climb  upon  the  table,  that 's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life — 
'  (He  's  got  a  knife  !) 


Thou  enviable  being! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  Johnt 

Toss  the  light  ball— bestride  the  stick — 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick !) 
With  fancies,  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down, 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk, 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He 's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown !) 


Thou  pretty  opening  rose  1 

(Go  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  South, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star — 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar  !) 
Bold  as  the  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove — 

(I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  love, 
I  can  not  write,  unless  he  's  sent  above  I) 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  4=25 

III. 

A    SERENADE. 

"  LULLABY,  0,  lullaby  1" 
Thus  I  heard  a  father  cry, 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 
The  brat  will  never  shut  an  eye ; 
Hither  come,  some  power  divine  ! 
Close  his  lids,  or  open  mine !" 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
What  the  devil  makes  him  cry  ? 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 
Still  he  stares — I  wonder  why, 
Why  are  not  the  sons  of  earth 
Blind,  like  puppies,  from  their  birth  ?" 

"Lullaby,  0,  lullaby!" 
Thus  I  heard  the  father  cry ; 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Mary,  you  must  come  and  try ! — 
Hush,  0,  hush,  for  mercy's  sake — 
The  more  I  sing,  the  more  you  wake  I" 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Fie,  you  little  creature,  fie  ! 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby! 
Is  no  poppy-syrup  nigh  ? 
Give  him  some,  or  give  him  all, 
I  am  nodding  to  his  fall !" 

"  Lullaby,  0,  lullaby  ! 
Two  such  nights  and  I  shall  die ! 

Lullaby,  0,  lullaby ! 
He  '11  be  bruised,  and  so  shall  I — 
How  can  I  from  bed-posts  keep, 
When  I  'm  walking  in  my  sleep  1" 

"Lullaby,  O,  lullaby! 
Sleep  his  very  looks  deny — 

Lullaby,  0  lullaby ! 
Nature  soon  will  stupefy — 


426  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

My  nerves  relax — rny  eyes  grow  dim — 
Who  's  that  fallen— me  or  him  ?" 


ODE    TO    PERRY, 

THE    INVENTOR    OF   THE    STEEL    PEN. 

THOMAS    HOOD. 

"  In  this  good  work,  Perm  appears  the  greatest,  usefullest  of  God' s  instruments. 
Firm  and  unbending  when  the  exigency  requires  it — soft  and  yielding  when  rigid 
inflexibility  is  not  a  desideratum — fluent  and  flowing,  at  need,  for  eloquent  rapid 
ity — slow  and  retentive  in  cases  of  deliberation — n^ver  spluttering  or  by  amplifi 
cation  going  wide  of  the  mark — never  splitting,  if  it  can  be  helped,  with  any  one, 
but  ready  to  wear  itself  out  rather  in  their  service — all  things  as  it  were  with  all 
men — ready  to  embrace  the  hand  of  Jew,  Christian,  or  Mohammedan — heavy 
with  the  German,  light  with  the  Italian,  oblique  with  the  English,  upright  with 
the  Roman,  backward  in  coming  forward  with  the  Hebrew — in  short,  for  flexi 
bility,  amiability,  constitutional  durability,  general  ability,  and  universal  utility, 
it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  parallel  to  the  great  Pcim." — PKBEY'S  CIIABACTEEISTICS 
OP  A  SETTLES.  % 

0  I  PATENT  Pen-inventing  Perrian  Perry  ! 

Friend  of  the  goose  and  gander, 
That  now  unplucked  of  their  quill-feathers  wander, 
Cackling,  and  gabbling,  dabbling,  making  merry, 

About  the  happy  fen, 
Untroubled  for  one  penny-worth  of  pen, 
For  which  they  chant  thy  praise  all  Britain  through, 

From  Goose-Green  unto  Gander-Cleugh  ! — 

Friend  to  all  Author-kind — 
Whether  of  Poet  or  of  Proser— 
Thou  art  composer  unto  the  composer 
Of  pens — yea,  patent  vehicles  for  Mind 
To  carry  it  on  jaunts,  or  more  extensive 

Pern/grinations  through  the  realms  of  thought  ; 
Each  plying  from  the  Comic  to  the  Pensive, 

An  Omnibus  of  intellectual  sort ; 

Modern  improvements  in  their  course  we  feel ; 
And  while  to  iron  railroads  heavy  wares, 
Dry  goods  and  human  bodies,  pay  their  fares, 
Mind  flies  on  steel. 


PARODIES     A.ND     BURLESQUES.  427 

To  Penrith,  Penrhyn,  even  to  Penzance ; 

Nay,  penetrates,  perchance, 
To  Pennsylvania,  or,  without  rash  vaunts, 
To  where  the  Penguin  haunts ! 

In  times  bygone,  when  each  man  cut  his  quill, 

With  little  Perryan  skill, 

What  horrid,  awkward,  bungling  tools  of  trade 
Appeared  the  writing  implements  home-made ! 

What  Pens  were  sliced,  hewed,  hacked,  and  haggled  out, 

Slit  or  unslit,  with  many  a  various  snout, 

Aquiline,  Roman,  crooked,  square,  and  snubby, 
Stumpy  and  stubby ; 

Some  capable  of  ladye-billets  neat, 

Some  only  fit  for  ledger-keeping  clerk, 

And  some  to  grub  down  Peter  Stubbs  his  mark, 

Or  smudge  through  some  illegible  receipt ; 

Others  in  florid  caligraphic  plans, 

Equal  to  ships,  and  wiggy  heads,  and  swans ! 

To  try  in  any  common  inkstands,  then, 
WTith  all  their  miscellaneous  stocks, 

To  find  a  decent  pen, 
Was  like  a  dip  into  a  lucky  box : 

You  drew — arid  got  one  very  curly, 
And  split  like  endive  in  some  hurly-burly  ; 
The  next  unslit,  and  square  at  end,  a  spade  ; 
The  third,  incipient  pop-gun,  not  yet  made ; 
The  fourth  a  broom  ;  the  fifth  of  no  avail, 

Turned  upward,  like  a  rabbit's  tail ; 
And  last,  not  least,  by  way  of  a  relief, 
A  stump  that  Master  Richard,  James  or  John, 
Had  tried  his  candle-cookery  upon, 
Making  "  roast-beef!" 

Not  so  thy  Perryan  Pens  ! 

True  to  their  M's  and  N's, 
They  do  not  with  a  whizzing  zig-zag  split, 
Straddle,  turn  up  their  noses,  sulk,  and  spit, 

Or  drop  large  dots, 

Hugh  full-stop  blots, 
Where  even  semicolons  were  unfit. 


428  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

They  will  not  frizzle  up,  or,  broom-like,  drudge 

In  sable  sludge — 

Nay,  bought  at  proper  "  Patent  Perryan"  shops, 
They  write  good  grammar,  sense,  and  mind  their  stops ; 

Compose  both  prose  and  verse,  the  sad  and  merry — 

For  when  the  editor,  whose  pains  compile 

The  grown-up  Annual,  or  the  Juvenile, 
Vaunteth  his  articles,  not  women's,  men's, 
But  lays  "  by  the  most  celebrated  Pens," 
What  means  he  but  thy  Patent  Pens,  my  Perry  ? 

Pleasant  they  are  to  feel ! 
So  firm  !  so  flexible !  composed  of  steel 
So  finely  tempered — fit  for  tenderest  Miss 

To  give  her  passion  breath, 
Or  kings  to  sign  the  warrant  stern  of  death — 
But  their  supremest  merit  still  is  this, 

Write  with  them  all  your  days, 
Tragedy,  Comedy,  all  kinds  of  plays — 
(No  dramatist  should  ever  be  without  'em) — 

And,  just  conceive  the  bliss — 
There  is  so  little  of  the  goose  about  'em, 

One  's  safe  from  any  hiss ! 
Ah  !  who  can  paint  that  first  great  awful  night, 

Big  with  a  blessing  or  a  blight, 
When  the  poor  dramatist,  all  fume  and  fret, 
Fuss,  fidget,  fancy,  fever,  funking,  fright, 
Ferment,  fault-fearing,  faintness — more  f  s  yet  : 
Flushed,  frigid,  flurried,  flinching,  fitful,  flat, 
Add  famished,  fuddled,  and  fatigued,  to  that ; 
Funeral,  fate-foreboding — site  in  doubt, 
Or  rather  doubt  with  hope,  a  wretehed  marriage, 
To  see  his  play  upon  the  stage  come  out  ; 
No  stage  to  him  I  it  is  Thalia's  carriage, 
And  he  is  sitting  on  the  spikes  behind  it, 
Striving  to  look  as  if  he  did  n't  mind  it ! 

Witness  how  Beazley  vents  upon  his  hat 
His  nervousness,  meanwhile  his  fate  is  dealt : 

He  kneads,  molds,  pummels  it,  and  sits  it  flat, 

Squeezes  and  twists  it  up,  until  the  felt, 

That  went  a  beaver  in,  comes  out  a  rat  I 


PARODIES     AND     BUKLESQUES.  429 

Miss  Mitford  had  rnis-givings,  and  in  fright, 

Upon  Rienzi's  night, 
Gnawed  up  one  long  kid  glove,  and  all  her  bag, 

Quite  to  a  rag. 
Knowles  has  confessed  he  trembled  as  for  life, 

Afraid  of  his  own  "  Wife;" 
Poole  told  me  that  he  felt  a  monstrous  pail 
Of  water  backing  him,  all  down  his  spine — 
"  The  ice-brook's  temper" — pleasant  to  the  chine  ! 
For  fear  that  Simpson  and  his  Co.  should  fail. 
Did  Lord  Glengall  not  frame  a  mental  prayer, 
Wishing  devout-ly  he  was  Lord  knows  where  ? 
Nay,  did  not  Jerrold,  in  enormous  drouth, 
While  doubtful  of  Nell  Gwynne's  eventful  luck, 

Squeeze  out  and  suck 
More  oranges  with  his  one  fevered  mouth 
Than  Nelly  had  to  hawk  from  north  to  south  ? 
Yea,  Buckstone,  changing  color  like  a  mullet, 
Refused,  on  an  occasion,  once,  twice,  thrice, 
From  his  best  friend,  an  ice, 
Lest  it  should  hiss  in  his  own  red-hot  gullet. 

Doth  punning  Peake  not  sit  upon  the  points 
Of  his  own  jokes,  and  shake  in  all  his  joints, 

During  their  trial  ? 

'Tis  past  denial. 

And  does  not  Pocock,  feeling,  like  a  peacock, 
All  eyes  upon  him,  turn  to  very  meacock  ? 
And  does  not  PlanchA,  tremulous  and  blank, 
Meanwhile  his  personages  tread  the  boards, 

Seem  goaded  by  sharp  swords, 
And  called  upon  liimsulf  to  ""  walk  the  plank  ?" 
As  for  the  Dances,  Charles  and  George  to  boot, 

What  hav«-  tli«-y  more 
Of  ease  and  rest,  for  sole  of  either  foot, 
Than  bear  that  capers  on  a  hotted  floor ! 


Thus  pending — does  not  Matthew?,  at  sad  shift 
For  voice,  croak  like  a  frog  in  waters  fenny  V — 
Serle  seem  upon  the  surly  seas  adrift  ? — 
And  Kenny  think  he 's  going  to  Kilkenny  ?— 


430  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES, 

Haynes  Bayly  feel  Old  ditto,  with  the  note 
Of  Cotton  in  his  ear,  a  mortal  grapple 

About  his  arms,  and  Adam's  apple 
Big  as  a  fine  Dutch  codling  in  his  throat  ? 
Did  Rodwell,  on  his  chimney-piece,  desire 
Or  not  to  take  a  jump  into  the  fire  ? 
Did  Wade  feel  as  composed  as  music  can  ? 
And  was  not  Bernard  his  own  Nervous  Man  ? 
Lastly,  don't  Farley,  a  bewildered  elf, 
Quake  at  the  Pantomime  he  loves  to  cater, 
And  ere  its  changes  ring  transform  himself? 

A  frightful  mug  of  human  delf  ? 
A  spirit-bottle — empty  of  "  the  cratur  ?" 

A  leaden-platter  ready  for  the  shelf? 

A  thunderstruck  dumb-waiter  ? 


To  clench  the  fact, 

Myself,  once  guilty  of  one  small  rash  ;t-t, 
Committed  at  the  Surrey, 
Quite  in  a  hurry, 
Felt  all  this  flurry, 
Corporal  worry, 
And  spiritual  scurry, 
Dram-devil — attic  curry  ! 
All  going  well, 
From  prompter's  bell, 
Until  befell 
A  liissing  at  some  dull  imperfect  dunce — 

There  's  no  denying 
I  felt  in  all  four  elements  at  once ! 
My  head  was  swimming,  while  my  arms  were  flying ! 
My  legs  for  running — all  the -rest  was  frying! 

Thrice  welcome,  then,  for  this  peculiar  use, 

Thy  pens  so  innocent  of  goose  ! 
For  this  shall  dramatists,  when  they  make  merry, 
Discarding  port  and  sherry, 

Drink— "Perry!" 
Perry,  whose  fame,  pennated,  is  let  loo.sc 

To  distant  lauds, 
Perry,  admitted  on  all  hands, 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  431 

Text,  running,  German,  Roman, 
For  Patent  Perryans  approached  by  no  man  ! 
And  when,  ah  me !  far  distant  be  the  hour  ! 
Pluto  shall  call  thee  to  his  gloomy  bower, 
Many  shall  be  thy  pensive  mourners,  many  ! 
And  Penury  itself  shall  club  its  penny 
To  raise  thy  monument  in  lofty  place, 
Higher  than  York's  or  any  son  of  War  ; 
While  time  all  meaner  effigies  shall  bury, 

On  due  pentagonal  base 

Shall  stand  the  Parian,  Perryan,  periwigged  Perry, 
Perched  on  the  proudest  peak  of  Penman  Mawr ! 


A  THEATRICAL  CURIOSITY. 

CRUIKSHANK'S  OMNIBUS. 
ONCE  in  a  barn  theatric,  deep  in  Kent, 

A  famed  tragedian — one  of  tuneful  tongue — 

Appeared  for  that  night  only — 't  was  Charles  Young. 
As  Rolla  he.     And  as  that  Innocent, 
The  Child  of  hapless  Cora,  on  there  went 

A  smiling,  fair-hair'd  girl.     She  scarcely  flung 

A  shadow,  as  she  walk'd  the  lamps  among — 
So  light  she  seem'd,  and  so  intelligent ! 
That  child  would  Rolla  bear  to  Cora's  lap  : 

Snatching  the  creature  by  her  tiny  gown, 
He  plants  her  on  his  shoulder, — All,  all  clap ! 

While  all  with  praise  the  Infant  Wonder  crown, 
tSJie  lisps  in  Rolla's  ear, — "  Look  out,  old  chap, 

Or  else  /'ra  blow'd  if  you  don't  have  me  down  /" 


SIDDONS  AND  HER  MAID. 

W.    S.    LANDOR. 

Siddons.     I  leave,  and  unreluctant,  the  repast ; 
The  herb  of  China  is  its  crown  at  last. 
Maiden  I  hast  thou  a  thimble  in  thy  gear  ? 

Maid.     Yes,  missus,  yes. 


432  PARODIES     AXD     BURLESQUES. 

Siddons.     Then,  maiden,  place  it  here, 
With  penetrated,  penetrating  eyes. 

Maid.     Mine  ?  missus !  are  they  ? 

Siddons.     Child  !  thou  art  unwise, 
Of  needles*,  not  of  woman's  eyes,  I  spake. 

Maid.     0  dear  me  I  missus,  what  a  sad  mistake  ! 

Siddons.     Now  canst  thou  +ell  me  what  was  that  which  led 
Athenian  Theseus  into  labyrinth  dread  ? 

Maid.     He  never  told  me :  I  can't  say,  not  I, 
Unless,  mayhap,  't  was  curiosity. 

Siddons.     Fond  maiden ! 

Maid.     No,  upon  my  conscience,  madam ! 
If  I  was  fond  of  'em  I  might  have  had  'em. 

Siddons.     Avoid!  avaunt!  beshrew  me!  'tis  in  vain 
That  Shakspeare's  language  germinates  again. 


THE  SECRET  SORROW. 

PUNCH. 

On !  let  me  from  the  festive  board 

To  thee,  my  mother,  flee  ; 
And  be  my  secret  sorrow  shared 

By  thee — by  only  thee ! 

In  vain  they  spread  the  glitt'ring  store, 

The  rich  repast,  in  vain ; 
Let  others  seek  enjoyment  there, 

To  me  'tis  only  pain. 

There  was  a  word  of  kind  advice — 

A  whisper  soft  and  low, 
But  oh  I  that  one  resistless  smile ! 

Alas  I  why  was  it  so  ? 

No  blame,  no  blame,  my  mother  dear, 

Do  I  impute  to  you, 
But  since  I  ate  that  currant  tart 

I  don't  know  what  to  do  ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  483 

SONG  FOR  PUNCH  DRINKERS. 

AFTER    SCHILLER. 

FOUR  be  the  elements, 

Here  we  assemble  'em, 
Each  of  man's  world 

And  existence  an  emblem. 

Press  from  the  lemon 

The  slow  flowing  juices — 
Bitter  is  life 

In  its  lessons  and  uses. 

Bruise  the  fair  sugar  lumps — 

Nature  intended 
Her  sweet  and  severe 

To  be  everywhere  blended. 

Pour  the  still  water — 

Unwarning  by  sound, 
Eternity's  ocean 

Is  hemming  us  round. 

Mingle  the  spirit, 

The  life  of  the  bowl- 
Man  is  an  earth-clod 

Unwarmed  by  a  soul ! 

Drink  of  the  stream 

Ere  its  potency  goes  ! — 
No  bath  is  refreshing 

Except  while  it  glows ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  HUMBUGGED  HUSBAND. 

PUNCH. 

SHE  's  not  what  fancy  painted  her — 

I'm  sadly  taken  in  : 
If  some  one  else  had  won  her,  I 

Should  not  have  cared  a  pin. 
19 


434  PAEODIES     AND    BURLESQUES, 

I  thought  that  she  was  mild  and  good 

As  maiden  e'er  could  be ; 
I  wonder  how  she  ever  could 

Have  so  much  humbugg'd  me. 

They  cluster  round  and  shake  my  luuul — 

They  tell  me  I  am  blest : 
My  case  they  do  not  understand — 

I  think  that  I  know  best. 

They  say  she  's  fairest  of  the  fan- — 
They  drive  me  mad  and  madder. 

What  do  they  mean  by  it  ?     I  swear,' 
I  only  wish  they  had  her. 

'Tis  true  that  she  has  lovely  locks, 

That  on  her  shoulders  fall ; 
What  would  they  say  to  see  the  box 

In  which  she  keeps  them  all  ? 

Her  taper  fingers,  it  is  true, 

'Twere  difficult  to  match : 
What  would  they  say  if  they  but  knew 

How  terribly  they  scratch  ? 


TEMPERANCE    SONG. 

PUNCH, 

Am — Friend  of  my  soul. 

FRIEND  of  my  soul,  this  water  .sip, 

Its  strength  you  need  not  fear ; 
Tis  not  so  luscious  as  egg-flip, 

Nor  half  so  strong  as  beer. 
Like  Jenkins  when  he  writes, 

It  can  not  touch  the  mind ; 
Unlike  what  he  indites, 

No  nausea  leaves  behind. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  435 

LINES 

ADDRESSED    TO    **    ****    *****    ON    THE   29-rn    OF    SEPTEMBER, 
WHEN    WE    PARTED    FOR    THE    LAST    TIME. 

PUNCH. 

I  HAVE  watch'd  thee  with  rapture,  and  dwelt  on  thy  charms, 
As  link'd  in  Love's  fetters  we  wander'd  each  clay ; 

And  each  night  I  have  sought  a  new  life  in  thy  arms, 
And  sigh'd  that  our  union  could  last  not  for  aye. 

But  thy  life  now  depends  on  a  frail  silken  thread, 
Which  I  even  by  kindness  may  cruelly  sever, 

And  I  look  to  the  moment  of  parting  with  dread, 
For  I  feel  that  in  parting  I  lose  thee  forever. 

Sole  being  that  cherish' d  my  poor  troubled  heart ! 

Thou  know'st  all  its  secrets — each  joy  and  each  grief; 
And  in  sharing  them  all  thou  did'st  ever  impart 

To  its  sorrows  a  gentle  and  soothing  relief. 

The  last  of  a  long  and  affectionate  race, 

As  thy  days  are  declining  I  love  thee  the  more, 

For  I  feel  that  thy  loss  I  can  never  replace — 
'That  thy  death  will  but  leave  me  to  weep  and  deplore. 

Unchanged,  thou  shalt  live  in  the  mem'ry  of  years, 
I  can  not — I  will  not — forget  what  thou  wert ! 

While  the  thoughts  of  thy  love  as  they  call  forth  my  tears, 
In  fancy  will  wash  thee  once  more — MY  LAST  SHIRT. 

Gr  ul-street. 


MADNESS. 

PUNCH. 

THERE  is  a  madness  of  the  heart,  not  head — 
That  in  some  bosoms  wages  endless  war  ; 

There  is  a  throe  when  other  pangs  are  dead, 
That  shakes  the  system  to  its  utmost  core. 


436  PAEODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

There  is  a  tear  more  scalding  than  the  brine 
That  streams  from  out  the  fountain  of  the  eye, 

And  like  the  lava  leaves  a  scorched  line, 
As  in  its  fiery  course  it  rusheth  by. 

What  is  that  madness  ?  Is  it  envy,  hate, 
Or  jealousy  more  cruel  than  the  grave, 

With  all  the  attendants  that  upon  it  wait 

And  make  the  victim  now  despair,  now  rave  ? 

It  is  when  hunger,  clam'ring  for  relief, 

Hears  a  shrill  voice  exclaim,  "  That  graceless  sinner, 
The  cook,  has  been,  and  gone,  and  burnt  the  beet', 

And  spilt  the  tart — in  short,  she  's  dish  'd  the  dinner  !' 


THE    BANDIT'S    FATE. 

PUNCH. 

HE  wore  a  brace  of  pistols  the  night  when  first  we  met, 

His  deep-lined  brow  was  frowning  beneath  his  wig  of  jet ; 

His  footsteps  had  the  moodiness,  his  voice  the  hollow  tone. 

Of  a  bandit-chief,  who  feels  remorse,  and  tears  his  hair  alone — 
I  saw  him  but  at  half-price,  yet  methinks  I  see  him:  now, 
In  the  tableau  of  the  last  act,  with  the  blood  upon  his  brow. 

A  private  bandit's  belt  and  boots,  when  next  we  met,  he  wore ; 

His  salary,  he  told  me,  was  lower  than  before  ; 

And  standing  at  the  0.  P.  wing  he  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 

To  borrow  half  a  sovereign,  which  he  never  paid  again. 
I  saw  it  but  a  moment — and  I  wish  I  saw  it  now — 
As  he  buttoned  up  his  pocket  with  a  condescending  bow. 

And  once  again  we  met ;  but  no  bandit  chief  was  there ; 
His  rouge  was  off,  and  gone  that  head  of  once  luxuriant  hair : 
He  lodges  in  a  two-pair  back,  and  at  the  public  near, 
He  can  not  liquidate  liis  "  chalk,"  or  wipe  away  his  beer. 
I  saw  him  sad  and  seedy,  yet  methinks  I  see  him  now, 
In  the  tableau  of  the  last  act,  with  the  blood  upon  his  brow. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  437 


LINES    WRITTEN    AFTER   A   BATTLE. 

BY   AN   ASSISTANT   SURGEON   OF   THE   NINETEENTH   NANKEENS. 

PUNCH. 

STIFF  are  the  warrior's  muscles, 

Congeal'd,  alas  1  his  chyle ; 
No  more  in  hostile  tussles 

Will  he  excite  his  bile. 
Dry  is  the  epidermis, 

A  vein  no  longer  bleeds — 
And  the  communis  vermis 

Upon  the  warrior  feeds. 

Compress'd,  alas!  the  thorax, 

That  throbbed  with  joy  or  pain ; 
Not  e'en  a  dose  of  borax 

Could  make  it  throb  again. 
Dried  up  the  warrior's  throat  is, 

All  shatter' d  too,  his  head  : 
Still  is  the  epiglottis — 

The  warrior  is  dead. 


THE  PHRENOLOGIST  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

PUNCH. 

THOUGH  largely  developed's  my  organ  of  order, 
And  though  I  possess  my  destructiveness  small, 

On  suicide,  dearest,  you  '11  force  me  to  border, 
If  thus  you  are  deaf  to  my  vehement  call. 

For  thee  veneration  is  daily  extending, 

On  a  head  that  for  want  of  it  once  was  quite  flat ; 

If  thus  with  my  passion  I  find  you  contending, 

My  organs  will  swell  till  they  've  knocked  off  my  hat. 

1  know,  of  perceptions,  I  've  none  of  the  clearest ; 

For  while  I  believe  that  by  thee  I  'm  beloved, 
I  'm  told  at  my  passion  thou  secretly  sneerest ; 

But  oh !  may  the  truth  unto  me  never  be  proved  I 


438  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

I  '11  fly  to  Deville,  and  a  cast  of  my  forehead 
I  '11  send  unto  thee ; — then  upon  thee  I  '11  call 

Rejection — alas  !  to  the  lover  how  horrid — 

When  'tis  passion  that  spurs-him,  'tis  bitter  as  gall. 


THE    CHEMIST    TO    HIS    LOVE. 

PUNCH. 

I  LOVE  thee,  Mary,  and  thou  lovest  me — 

Our  mutual  flame  is  like  th'  affinity 

That  doth  exist  between  two  simple  bodies : 

I  am  Potassium  to  thine  Oxygen. 

'Tis  little  that  the  holy  marriage  vow 

Shall  shortly  make  us  one.     That  unity 

Is,'  after  all,  but  metaphysical. 

0,  would  that  I,  my  Mary,  were  an  acid, 

A  living  acid ;  thou  an  alkali 

Endow'd  with  human  sense,  that,  brought  together, 

We  both  might  coalesce  into  one  salt, 

One  homogeneous  crystal.     Oh  I  that  thou 

Wert  Carbon,  and  myself  were  Hydrogen ; 

We  would  unite  to  form  olefiant  gas, 

Or  common  coal,  or  naphtha— would  to  heaven 

That  I  were  Phosphorus,  and  thou  wert  Lime  ' 

And  we  of  Lime  composed  a  Phosphuret. 

I  'd  be  content  to  be  Sulphuric  Acid, 

So  that  thou  might  be  Soda.     In  that  case 

We  should  be  Glauber's  Salt.     Wert  thou  Magnesia 

Instead  we  'd  form  that's  named  from  Epsom. 

Couldst  thou  Potassa  be,  I  Aqua-fortis, 

Our  happy  union  should  that  compound  form, 

Nitrate  of  Potash — otherwise  Saltpeter. 

And  thus  our  several  natures  sweetly  blent, 

We'd  live  and  love  together,  until  death 

Should  decompose  the  fleshly  tertium  quid, 

Leaving  our  souls  to  all  eternity 

Amalgamated.     Sweet,  thy  name  is  Briggs 

And  mine  is  Johnson.     Wherefore  should  not  we 

Agree  to  form  a  Johnsonate  of  Briggs  ? 

We  will.     The  day,  the  happy  day,  is  nigh, 

When  Johnson  shall  with  beauteous  Briggs  combine. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  439 

A    BALLAD    OF    BEDLAM. 

PUNCH. 

0,  LADY  wake ! — the  azure  moon 

Is  rippling  in  the  verdant  skies, 
The  owl  is  warbling  his  soft  tune, 

Awaiting  but  thy  snowy  eyes. 
The  joys  of  future  years  are  past, 

To-morrow's  hopes  have  fled  away ; 
Still  let  us  love,  and  e'en  at  last, 

We  shall  be  happy  yesterday. 

The  early  beam  of  rosy  night 

Drives  off  the  ebon  morn  afar, 
While  through  the  murmur  of  the  light 

The  huntsman  winds  his  mad  guitar. 
Then,  lady,  wake  !  my  brigantine 

Pants,  neighs,  and  prances  to  be  free ; 
Till  the  creation  I  am  thine, 

To  some  rich  desert  fly  with  me. 


STANZAS    TO     AN     EGG. 
[BY  A  SPOON.] 

PUNCH. 

PLEDGE  of  a  feather' d  pair's  affection, 

Kidnapped  in  thy  downy  nest, 
Soon  for  my  breakfast — sad  reflection  ! — 

Must  thou  in  yon  pot  be  drest. 

What  are  the  feelings  of  thy  mother  ? 

Poor  bereaved,  unhappy  hen ! 
Though  she  may  lay,  perchance,  another, 

Thee  she  ne'er  will  see  again. 

Yet  do  not  mourn.     Although  above  thee 

Never  more  shall  parent  brood, 
Know,  dainty  darling !  that  I  love  thee 

Dearly  as  thy  mother  could. 


440  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

PUNCH. 

His  eye  was  stern  and  wild, — bis  cheek  was  pale  and  cold  as 

clay; 

Upon  his  tightened  lip  a  smile  of  fearful  meaning  lay  ; 
He  mused  awhile — but  not  in  doubt — no  trace  of  doubt  was 

there ; 

It  was  the  steady  solemn  pause  of  resolute  despair. 
Once  more  he  look'd  upon  the  scroll — once  more  its  words  he 

read — 

Then  calmly,  with  unflinching  hand,  its  folds  before  him  spread. 
I  saw  him  bare  his  throat,  and  seize  the  blue  cold-gleaming  steel, 
And  grimly  try  the  tempered  edge  he  was  so  soon  to  feel ! 
A  sickness  crept  upon  my  heart,  and  dizzy  swam  my  head, — 
I  could  not  stir — I  could  not  cry — I  felt  benumb'd  and  dead ; 
Black  icy  horrors  struck  me  dumb,  and  froze  my  senses  o'er ; 
I  closed  my  eyes  in  utter  fear,  and  strove  to  think  no  more. 

******* 
Again  I  looked, — a  fearful  change  across  his  face  had  pass'd — 
He  seem'd  to  rave, — on  cheek  and  lip  a  flaky  foam  was  cast ; 
He  raised  on  high  the  glitteirng  blade — then  first  I  found  a 

tongue — 
"Hold,  madman !  stay  thy  frantic  deed!"  I  cried,  and  forth  I 

sprung ; 

He  heard  me,  but  he  heeded  not ;  one  glance  around  be  gave  ; 
And  ere  I  could  arrest  his  hand,  he  had  begun  to  shave  t 


EATING   SONG. 

PUNCH. 

OH  I  carve  me  yet  another  slice, 

0  help  me  to  more  gravy  still, 
There  's  naught  so  sure  as  something  nice 

To  conquer  care,  or  grief  to  kill. 

I  always  loved  a  bit  of  beef, 

When  Youth  and  Bliss  and  Hope  were  mine  ; 
And  now  it  gives  my  heart  relief 

Tn  sorrow's  darksome  hour — to  dine  I 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  441 

THE    SICK    CHILD. 

[BY   THE   HONORABLE   WILHELMINA   SKEGGS.] 

PUNCH. 

A  WEAKNESS  seizes  on  my  mind — I  would  more  pudding  take ; 
But  all  in  vain — I  feel — I  feel — my  little  head  will  ache. 
Oh !  that  I  might  alone  be  left,  to  rest  where  now  I  am, 
And  finish  with  a  piece  of  bread  that  pot  of  currant  jam. 

I  gaze  upon  the  cake  with  tears,  and  wildly  I  deplore 
That  I  must  take  a  powder  if  I  touch  a  morsel  more, 
Or  oil  of  castor,  smoothly  bland,  will  offer' d  be  to  me, 
In  wave  pellucid,  floating  on  a  cup  of  milkless  tea. 

It  may  be  so — I  can  not  tell — I  yet  may  do  without ; 

They  need  not  know,  when  left  alone,  what  I  have  been  about. 

I  long  to  eat  that  potted  beef— to  taste  that  apple-pie ; 

I  long — I  long  to  eat  some  more,  but  have  not  strength  to  try. 

I  gasp  for  breath,  and  now  I  know  I  've  eaten  far  too  much  j 
Not  one  more  crumb  of  all  the  feast  before  me  can  I  touch. 
Susan,  oh  !  Susan,  ring  the  bell,  and  call  for  mother,  dear, 
My  brain  swims  round — I  feel  it  all — mother,  your  child  is  queer  1 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  CRISIS. 

PUNCH. 

OH,  solitude  !  thou  wonder-working  fay, 
Come  nurse  my  feeble  fancy  in  your  arms, 
Though  I,  and  thee,  and  fancy  town-pent  lay, 
Come,  call  around,  a  world  of  country  charms. 
Let  all  this  room,  these  walls  dissolve  away, 
And  bring  me  Surrey's  fields  to  take  their  place : 
This  floor  be  grass,  and  draughts  as  breezes  play  ; 
Yon  curtains  trees,  to  wave  in  summer's  face  ; 
My  ceiling,  sky ;  my  water-jug  a  stream ; 
My  bed,  a  bank,  on  which  to  muse  and  dream, 
1ft* 


442  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

The  spell  is  wrought :  imagination  swells 

My  sleeping-room  to  hills,  and  woods,  and  dells  1 

I  walk  abroad,  for  naught  my  footsteps  hinder, 

And  fling  my  arms.     Oh !  mi !  I  've  broke  the  winder  ! 


LINES   TO  BESSY. 

[BY  A  STUDENT  AT  LAW.] 

PUNCH. 

MY  head  is  like  a  title-deed, 

Or  abstract  of  the  same  : 
Wherein,  my  Bessy,  thou  may'st  read 

Thine  own  long-cherish' d  name. 

Against  thee  I  my  suit  have  brought, 

I  am  thy  plaintiff  lover, 
And  for  the  heart  that  thou  hast  caught, 

An  action  lies — of  trover. 

Alas,  upon  me  every  day 

The  heaviest  costs  you  levy: 
Oh,  give  me  back  my  heart — but  nay ! 

I  feel  I  can't  replevy. 

I  '11  love  thee  with  my  latest  breath, 

Alas,  I  can  not  you  shun, 
Till  the  hard  hand  of  sheriff  death 

Takes  me  in  execution. 

Say,  BESSY  dearest,  if  you  will 

Accept  me  as  a  lover  ? 
Must  true  affection  file  a  bill 

The  secret  to  discover  ? 

Is  it  my  income's  small  amount 

That  leads  to  hesitation  ? 
Refer  the  question  of  account 

To  CUPID'S  arbitration. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  443 

MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  ONLY  CLIENT. 

PUNCH. 

OH  !  take  away  my  wig  and  gown, 
Their  sight  is  mockery  now  to  me : 

I  pace  my  chambers  up  and  down, 
Reiterating  "  Where  is  he  ?" 

Alas  1  wild  echo,  with  a  moan, 

Murmurs  above  my  feeble  head  : 
In  the  wide  world  I  am  alone ; 

Ha  I  ha !  my  only  client's — dead  ! 

In  vain  the  robing-room  I  seek ; 

The  very  waiters  scarcely  bow ; 
Their  looks  contemptuously  speak, 

"  He 's  lost  his  only  client  now." 

E'en  the  mild  usher,  who,  of  yore, 
Would  hasten  when  his  name  I  said, 

To  hand  in  motions,  comes  no  more, 
He  knows  my  only  client's  dead. 

Ne'er  shall  I,  lising  up  in  court, 

Open  the  pleadings  of  a  suit : 
Ne'er  shall  the  judges  cut  me  short 

While  moving  them  for  a  compute. 

No  more  with  a  consenting  brief 

Shall  I  politely  bow  my  head ; 
Where  shall  I  run  to  hide  my  grief? 

Alas !  my  only  client 's  dead. 

Imagination's  magic  power 

Brings  back,  as  clear,  as  clear  as  can  be, 

The  spot,  the  day,  the  very  hour, 
When  first  I  sign'd  my  maiden  plea. 

In  the  Exchequer's  hindmost  row 
I  sat,  and  some  one  touched  my  head, 

He  tendered  ten-and-six,  but  oh ! 
That  only  client  now  is  dead. 


444  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES 

In  vain  I  try  to  sing — I  'm  hoarse  : 
In  vain  I  try  to  play  the  flute, 

A  phantom  seems  to  flit  across — 
It  is  the  ghost  of  a  compute. 

I  try  to  read, — but  all  in  vain ; 

My  chamber  listlessly  I  tread ; 
Be  still,  my  heart ;  throb  less,  my  brain  ; 

Ho !  ho !  my  only  client's  dead. 

I  think  I  hear  a  double  knock : 

I  did — alas  I  it  is  a  dun. 
Tailor — avaunt !  my  sense  you  shock  ; 

He 's  dead !  you  know  I  had  but  one. 

What 's  this  they  thrust  into  my  hand  ? 

A  bill  returned ! — ten  pounds  for  bread 
My  butcher's  got  a  large  demand ; 

I  'm  mad  !  my  only  client's  dead. 


LOVE    ON    THE    OCEAN. 

PUNCH. 

THEY  met,  't  was  in  a  storm 

On  the  deck  of  a  steamer ; 
She  spoke  in  language  warm, 

Like  a  sentimental  dreamer. 
He  spoke — at  least  he  tried  ; 

His  position  he  altered ; 
Then  turned  his  face  aside, 

And  his  deep-ton'd  voice  falter'd. 

She  gazed  upon  the  wave, 

Sublime  she  declared  it  ; 
But  no  reply  he  gave — 

He  could  not  have  dared  it. 
A  breeze  came  from  the  south, 

Across  the  billows  sweeping ; 
His  heart  was  in  his  mouth, 

And  out  he  thought  't  was  leaping. 


PARODIES     A.ND    BURLESQUES.  445 

"  0,  then,  Steward !"  he  cried, 

With  the  deepest  emotion ; 
Then  totter'd  to  the  side, 

And  leant  o'er  the  ocean. 
The  world  may  think  him  cold, 

But  they  '11  pardon  him  with  quickness, 
When  the  fact  they  shall  be  told, 

That  he  suffer' d  from  sea-sickness. 


"OH!  WILT  THOU  SEW  MY  BUTTONS  ON?"* 

AND 

"  YES,  I  WILL  SEW  THY  BUTTONS  ON  1" 

PUNCH. 

LJust  at  present  no  lyrics  have  so  eclatant  a  succes  de  socitU  as  the  charming 
companion  ballads  which,  under  the  above  pathetic  titles,  have  made  a  fureuT 
in  the  fashionable  circles,  to  which  the  fair  composer,  to  whom  they  are  attrib 
uted  in  the  causeries  of  May  Fair  and  Belgravia  (The  Hox  MBS.  N — r — N), 
belongs.  The  touching  event  to  which  they  refer,  is  the  romantic  union  of  the 
HON.  Miss  BL — CHE  DK  F— TZ— FL— M  to  0— IT— N  DE  B— TO,  of  the  C— DS— M 
G — DS,  which  took  the  beau  monde  by  surprise  last  season.  Previous  to  the  eclair- 
cissc'nicnt,  the  gifted  and  lovely  composer,  at  a  ball  given  by  the  distinguished 
D — on — 88  of  S — TU — r>,  accidentally  overheard  the  searching  question  of  the 
gallant  but  penniless  Captain,  and  the  passionate  and  self-devoted  answer  of  his 
lovely  and  universally  admired  fiancee.  She  instantly  rushed  home  and  pro 
duced  these  pathetic  and  powerful  ballads.] 

"  On  !  wilt  thou  sew  my  buttons  on, 

When  gayer  scenes  recall 
That  fairy  face,  that  stately  grace, 

To  reign  amid  the  ball  ? 
When  Fulham's  bowers  their  sweetest  flowers 

For  fete-champetres  shall  don, 
Oh  !  say,  wilt  thou,  of  queenly  brow, 

Still  sew  my  buttons  on  ? 

"  The  noble,  sweet,  are  at  thy  feet, 

To  meet  a  freezing  eye  ; 
The  gay,  the  great,  in  camp  and  state, 

In  vain  around  thee  sigh. 

*  "  Wilt  thou  love  me  then  as  now?"  and  "  I  will  love  thee  then  as  now,"  wore 
two  popular  songs  in  1849. 


446  PARODIES    AND      BURLESQUES. 

Tiiou  turn'st  away,  in  scorn  of  sway, 

To  bless  a  younger  son — 
But  when  we  live  in  lodgings,  say, 

Wilt  sew  his  buttons  on  ?" 


"  Yes,  I  will  sew  thy  buttons  on, 

Though  all  look  dark  and  drear; 
And  scant,  they  say,  lieutenant's  pay, 

Two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
Let  HOW'LL  and  JAMES  tempt  wealthier  dames, 

Of  gauds  and  gems  I  '11  none ; 
Nor  ask  to  roam,  but  sit  at  home, 

And  sew  thy  buttons  on ! 

"  When  ladies  blush  'neath  lusters'  flush, 

And  fast  the  waltzers  fly, 
Though  tame  at  tea  I  bide  with  thee, 

No  tear  shall  dim  my  eye. 
When  summer's  close  brings  Chiswick  shows — 

When  all  from  town  have  gone, 
I  '11  sit  me  down,  nor  pout  nor  frown, 

But  sew  thy  buttons  on  !" 


THE    PAID    BILL. 

A    BALLAD    OF    DOMESTIC    ECONOMY. 

PUNCH. 

0  FLING  not  this  receipt  away, 

Given  by  one  who  trusted  thee ; 
Mistakes  will  happen  every  day 

However  honest  folks  may  be. 
And  sad  it  is,  love,  twice  to  pay  ; 
So  cast  not  that  receipt  away  ! 

All,  yes ;  if  e'er,  in  future  hours, 

When  we  this  bill  have  all  forgot, 
They  send  it  in  again — ye  powers  I — 

And  swear  that  we  have  paid  it  not — 
How  sweet  to  know,  on  such  a  day 
We  've  never  cast  receipts  away  ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  447 


PARODY  FOR  A  REFORMED  PARLIAMENT. 

PUNCH. 

THE  quality  of  bribery  is  deep  stained ; 

It  droppeth  from  a  hand  behind  the  door 

Into  the  voter's  palm.     It  is  twice  dirty  : 

It  dirts  both  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 

'Tis  basest  in  the  basest,  and  becomes 

Low  blacklegs  more  than  servants  of  the  Crown. 

Those  swindlers  show  the  force  of  venal  power, 

The  attribute  to  trick  and  roguery, 

Whereby  'tis  managed  that  a  bad  horse  wins  : 

But  bribery  is  below  their  knavish  "  lay." 

It  is  the  vilest  of  dishonest  things ; 

It  was  the  attribute  to  G-atton's  self; 

And  other  boroughs  most  like  Gatton  show 

When  bribery  smothers  conscience.     Therefore,  you, 

Whose  conscience  takes  the  fee,  consider  this — 

That  in  the  cause  of  just  reform,  you  all 

Should  lose  your  franchise:  we  do  dislike  bribery; 

And  that  dislike  doth  cause  us  to  object  to 

The  deeds  of  W.  B. 


THE    WAITER. 

PUNCH, 

I  MET  the  waiter  in  his  prime 

At  a  magnificent  hotel ; 
His  hair,  untinged  by  care  or  time, 

Was  oiled  and  brushed  exceeding  well. 
When  "  waiter,"  was  the  impatient  cry, 

In  accents  growing  stronger, 
He  seem'd  to  murmur  "  By  and  by, 

Wait  a  little  longer." 

Within  a  year  we  met  once  more, 

'T  was  in  another  part  of  town — 
An  humbler  air  the  waiter  worr, 

I  fancied  he  was  going  down. 


448  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES, 

Still,  when  I  shouted  "  Waiter,  bread  1" 
He  came  out  rather  stronger, 

As  if  he  'd  say  with  toss  of  head, 
"  Wait  a  little  longer." 


Time  takes  us  on  through  many  a  grade ; 

Of  "  ups  and  downs"  I  've  had  my  run, 
Passing  full  often  through  the  shade 

And  sometimes  loitering  in  the  sun. 
I  and  the  waiter  met  again 

At  a  small  inn  at  Ongar ; 
Still,  when  I  call'd,  't  was  almost  vain — 

He  bade  me  wait  the  longer. 

Another  time — years  since  the  last — 
At  eating-house  I  sought  relief 

From  present  care  and  troubles  past, 
In  a  small  plate  of  round  of  beef. 

"  One  beef,  and  taturs,"  was  the  cry, 
In  tones  than  mine  much  stronger ; 

'T  was  the  old  waiter  standing  by, 
"  Waiting  a  little  longer." 

I  've  marked  him  now  for  many  a  year  ; 

I  've  seen  his  coat  more  rusty  grow  ; 
His  linen  is  less  bright  and  clear, 

His  polished  pumps  are  on  the  go. 
Torn  are,  alas  !  his  Berlin  gloves — 

They  used  to  be  much  stronger ; 
The  waiter's  whole  appearance  proves 

He  can  not  wait  much  longer. 

1  sometimes  see  the  waiter  still ; 

'Gainst  want  he  wages  feeble  strife  ; 
He  's  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 

Downward  has  been  his  path  through  life 
Of  "  waiter,  waiter,"  there  are  cries, 

Which  louder  grow  and  stronger ; 
'Tis  to  old  Time  he  now  replies, 

"  Wait  a  little  longer." 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  449 


THE  LAST  APPENDIX  TO   "YANKEE   DOODLE." 

PUNCH,  1851. 
YANKEE  DOODLE  sent  to  Town 

His  goods  for  exhibition ; 
Every  body  ran  him  down, 

And  laugh'd  at  his  position . 
They  thought  him  all  the  world  behind  ; 

A  goney,  muff,  or  noodle  ; 
Laugh  on,  good  people — never  mind — 

Says  quiet  YANKEE  DOODLE. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 

YANKEE  DOODLE  had  a  craft, 

A  rather  tidy  clipper, 
And  he  challenged,  wliile  they  laughed, 

The  Britishers  to  whip  her. 
Their  whole  yacht-squadron  she  ontsped, 

And  that  on  their  own  water ; 
Of  all  the  lot  she  went  a-head, 

And  they  came  nowhere  arter. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 

O'er  Panama  there  was  a  scheme 

Long  talk'd  of,  to  pursue  a 
Short  route — which  many  thought  a  dream — - 

By  Lake  Nicaragua. 
JOHN  BULL  discussed  the  plan  on  foot, 

With  slow  irresolution, 
Wliile  YANKEE  DOODLE  went  and  put 

It  into  execution. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 

A  steamer  of  the  COLLINS  line, 

A  YANKEE  DOODLE'S  notion, 
Has  also  quickest  cut  the  brine 

Across  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 
And  British  agents,  no  ways  slow 

Her  merits  to  discover, 


450  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Have  been  and  bought  her — -just  to  tow 
The  CUNARD  packets  over. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 

Your  gunsmiths  of  their  skill  may  crack, 

But  that  again  don't  mention : 
I  guess  that  COLTS'  revolvers  whack 

Their  very  first  invention. 
By  YANKEE  DOODLE,  too,  you  're  beat 

Downright  in  Agriculture, 
With  his  machine  for  reaping  wheat, 

Chaw'd  up  as  by  a  vulture. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 

You  also  fancied,  in  your  pride, 

Which  truly  is  tarnation, 
Them  British  locks  of  yourn  defied 

The  rogues  of  all  creation ; 
But  CHUBBS'  and  BRAMAH'S  HOBBS  has  pick'd, 

And  you  must  now  be  view'd  all 
As  having  been  completely  licked 

By  glorious  YANKEE  DOODLE. 

Chorus. — YANKEE  DOODLE,  etc. 


LINES    FOR    MUSIC. 

PUNCH. 

COME  strike  me  the  harp  with  its  soul-stirring  twang, 
The  drum  shall  reply  with  its  hollowest  bang ; 
Up,  up  in  the  air  with  the  light  tamborine, 
And  let  the  dull  ophecleide's  groan  intervene ; 
For  such  is  our  life,  lads,  a  chaos  of  soun  Is, 
Through  which  the  gay  traveler  actively  bounds. 
With  the  voice  of  the  public  the  statesman  must  chime, 
And  change  the  key-note,  boys,  exactly  in  time  ; 
The  lawyer  will  coolly  his  client  survey, 
As  an  instrument  merely  whereon  he  can  play. 
Then  harp,  drum,  and  cymbals  together  shall  clang, 
With  a  loud-tooral  lira,  right  tooral,  bang,  bang ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  451 

DRAMA    FOR   EVERY-DAY    LIFE. 

LUDGATE    HILL. A    MYSTERY. 

PUNCH. 
DBAMATIS  PEBSON^E. 

ME.  MEADOWS       .        .        .        .      A  Country  Gentleman. 

PBIGWELL          ....  With  a  heavy  heart  and  light  fingers. 

r  Friends  of  each  other. 

JONES  .....  I 

c     Who  will  attempt  the  song  of  "  Hen 
BLIND  VOCALIST    .       .       .      .  -j  the  Bonny  Breast  Knot» 

TJie  Scene  represents  Ludgate  ffiU  in  the  middle  of  the  day ;  Pass 
engers,  Omnibuses,  etc.,  etc.,  passing  to  and  fro. 

MEADOWS  enters,  musing. 

Meadows.     I  stand  at  last  on  Ludgate's  famous  hill ; 
I  've  traversed  Farringdon's  frequented  vale, 
I  've  quitted  Holborn's  heights — the  slopes  of  Snow, 
Where  Skinner's  sinuous  street,  with  tortuous  track, 
Trepans  the  traveler  toward  the  field  of  Smith ; 
That  field,  whose  scents  burst  on  the  offended  nose 
With  foulest  flavor,  while  the  thrice  shocked  ear, 
Thrice  shocked  with  bellowing  blasphemy  and  blows, 
Making  one  compound  of  Satanic  sound, 
Is  stunned,  in  physical  and  moral  sense. 
But  this  is  Ludgate  Hill — here  commerce  thrives ; 
Here,  merchants  carry  trade  to  such  a  height 
That  competition,  bursting  builders'  bonds, 
Starts  from  the  shop,  and  rushing  through  the  roof, 
Unites  the  basement  with  the  floors  above  ; 
Till,  like  a  giant,  that  outgrows  his  strength, 
The  whole  concern,  struck  with  abrupt  collapse, 
In  one  "  tremendous  failure"  totters  down  I — 
'Tis  food  on  which  philosophy  may  fatten. 

[Turns  round,  musing,  and  looks  into  a  shop  window. 

Enter  FRIGWELL,  talking  to  himself. 
PrigweU.     I  've  made  a  sorry  day  of  it  thus  far ; 
I  've  fathomed  fifty  pockets,  all  in  vain ; 
I  've  spent  in  omnibuses  half-a-crown ; 
I  've  ransacked  forty  female  reticules — 
And  notliing  found — some  business  must  be  done. 


452  PAEODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

By  Jove — I  'd  rather  turn  Lascar  at  once  : 

Allow  the  walnut's  devastating  juice 

To  track  its  inky  course  along  my  cheek, 

And  stain  my  British  brow  with  Indian  brown. 

Or,  failing  that,  I  'd  rather  drape  myself 

In  cheap  wliite  cotton,  or  gay  colored  chintz — 

Hang  roung  my  ear  the  massive  curtain-ring — 

With  strings  of  bold,  effective  glassy  beads 

Circle  my  neck — and  play  the  Brahmin  Priest, 

To  win  the  sympathy  of  passing  crowds, 

And  melt  the  silver  in  the  stranger's  purse. 

But  ah !  (seeing  MEADOWS)  the  laud  of  promise  looms  before  me: 

The  bulging  skirts  of  that  provincial  coat 

Tell  tales  of  well-filled  pocket-books  within. 

[Goes  behind  Meadows  and  empties  his  pockets. 

This  is  indeed  a  prize ! 

[Meadows  turns  suddenly  round. 
Your  pardon,  sir ; 
Is  this  the  way  to  Newgate  ? 

Meadows.  "Why,  indeed 

I  scarce  can  say ;  I  'm  but  a  stranger  here, 
I  should  not  like  to  misdirect  you. 

Prigwell.  Thank  you, 

1 11  find  the  way  to  Newgate  by  myself. 

[Exit 

Meadows  (still  musing).     This  is  indeed  a  great  Metropolis. 
Enter  BLIND  VOCALIST. 

Blind  Vocalist  (singing).  Hey,  the  bonny !  (Knocks  up  against  MEADOWS, 
who  ezit).  Ho !  the  bonny — (A  passenger  knocks  up  against  the  BLIND  VOCAL 
IST  on  the  other  side).  Hey,  the  bonny—  (A  buMier'tt  tray  strikes  the  BLIND 
VOCALIST  in  the  chest)— breast  knot.  As  he  continues  singing  "  Hey,  the  bonny  I 
ho,  the  bonny"  the  BLIND  VOCALIST  encounters  various  collisions,  and  his 
breath  being  taken  away  by  a  poke  or  a  push  between  each  bar,  he  is  carried 
away  by  the  stream  of  passengers. 

Enter  BROWN  and  JONES.     Meeting,  they  stop  and  shake  hands 
most  cordially  for  several  minutes. 

Brown,     How  are  you,  JONES  ? 

Jones.  Why,  BROWN,  I  do  declare 

'Tis  quite  an  age  since  you  and  I  have  met. 
Brown.     I  'm  quite  delighted. 
Jones.  I  'm  extremely  glad. 

[An  awkward  pause. 

Brown.     Well  I  and  how  are  you  ? 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Jones.  Thank  you,  very  well ; 

And  you,  I  hope  are  well  ? 

Brown.  Quite  well,  I  thank  you. 

[Another  awkward  pause. 

Jones.     Oh  ! — by  the  way — have  you  seen  THOMSON  lately  ? 

Brown.     Not  very  lately.     (After  a  pause,  and  as  if  struck 

with  a  happy  idea).     But  I  met  with  SMITH — 
A  week  ago. 

Jones.  Oh !  did  you  though,  indeed  ? 

And  how  was  SMITH  ? 

Brown.  Why,  he  seemed  pretty  well. 

[Another  long  pause  ;  at  the  end  of  which  both  appear  as  If 
they  were  going  to  speak  to  each  other. 

Jones.    I  beg  your  pardon. 
Smith.  You  were  going  to  speak  ? 

Jones.     Oh!  nothing.     I  was  only  going  to  say- 
Good  morning. 

Smith.  Oh !  and  so  was  I.     Good-day. 

[Both  shake  hands,  and  are  going  off  in  opposite  directions,  when 
Smith  turns  round.  Jones  turning  round  at  the  same  time 
they  both  return  and  look  at  each  other. 

Jones.     I  thought  you  wished  to  speak,  by  looking  back. 
Brown.     Oh  no.     I  thought  the  same. 
Both  together.  Good-by  !     Good-by ! 

[Exeunt  finally ;  and  the  conversation  and  the  curtain  drop  together. 


PROCLIVIOK. 

(A  slight  Variation  on  LONGFELLOW'S  "  EXCELSIOB.") 

PUNCH. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  tow'rd  the  Haymarket  there  pass'd 
A  youth,  whose  look  told  in  a  trice 
That  his  taste  chose  the  queer  device — 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

His  hat,  a  wide-awake ;  beneath 
He  tapp'd  a  cane  against  his  teeth ; 
His  eye  was  bloodshot,  and  there  rung, 
Midst  scraps  of  slang,  in  unknown  tongue, 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 


454  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

In  calm  first-floors  he  saw  the  light 
Of  circles  cosy  for  the  night ; 
But  far  ahead  the  gas-lamps  glow ; 
He  turn'd  his  head,  and  muramr'd  "Slow," 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 


"  Come  early  home,"  his  Uncle  said, 
"  We  all  are  early  off  to  bed ; 
The  family  blame  you  far  and  wide ;" 
But  loud  that  noisy  youth  replied — 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

"  Stay,"  said  his  Aunt,  "  come  home  to  sup , 
Early  retire — get  early  up." 
A  wink  half  quivered  in  his  eye ; 
He  answered  to  the  old  dame's  sigh — 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

"  Mind  how  you  meddle  with  that  lamp  ! 
And  mind  the  pavement,  for  it's  damp  !" 
Such  was  the  Peeler's  last  good-night. 
A  faint  voice  stutter'd  out  "  All  right." 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  far  West-ward 
A  cab  roll'd  o'er  the  highways  hard, 
The  early  mover  stopp'd  to  stare 
At  the  wild  shouting  of  the  fare — 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

And  by  the  bailiff's  faithful  hound, 
At  breakfast-time,  a  youth  was  found, 
Upon  three  chairs,  with  aspect  nice, 
True  to  his  young  life's  queer  device, 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 

Thence,  on  a  dull  and  muggy  day, 
They  bore  him  to  the  Bench  away. 
And  there  for  several  months  he  lay, 
While  friends  speak  gravely  as  they  say — 
PROCLIVIOR  ! 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  455 


JONES  AT  THE  BARBER'S  SHOP. 

PUNCH. 

SCENE. — A  Barber's  SIiop.     Barber's  men  engaged  in  cutting  hair, 
making  wigs,  and  other  barberesque  operations. 

Enter  JONES,  meeting  OILY  the  barber. 
Jones.     I  wish  my  hair  cut. 
Oily.     Pray,  sir,  take  a  seat. 

[OiLY  puts  a  chair  for  Joxrs,  who  sits.     During  the  following  dialogue  OII.Y  con- 
tinuos  cutting  JONES'S  hair. 

Oily.  We  've  had  much  wet,  sir. 

Jones.  Very  much,  indeed. 

Oily.  And  yet  November's  early  days  were  fine. 

Jones.  They  were. 

Oily.  I  hoped  fair  weather  might  have  lasted  us 
Until  the  end. 

Jones.  At  one  time — so  did  I. 

Oily.  But  we  have  had  it  very  wet. 

Jones.  We  have. 

[A  pause  of  sorau  minutes. 

Oily.     I  know  not,  sir,  who  cut  your  hair  last  time ; 
But  this  I  say,  sir,  it  was  badly  cut : 
No  doubt 't  was  in  the  country. 

Jones.     No !  in  town ! 

Oily.     Indeed !     I  should  have  fancied  otherwise. 

Jones.     'T  was  cut  in  town — and  in  this  very  iv»;>m. 

Oily.     Amazement ! — but  I  now  remember  well. 
We  had  an  awkward,  new  provincial  hand, 
A  fellow  from  the  country.     Sir,  he  did 
More  damage  to  my  business  in  a  week 
Than  all  my  skill  can  in  a  year  repair. 
He  must  have  cut  your  hair. 

Jones  (looking  at  him}.     No — 't  was  yourself. 

Oily.    Myself!     Impossible !     You  must  mistake. 

Jones.     I  don't  mistake— 't  was  you  that  cut  my  Imir. 

[A  long  pause,  interrupted  only  by  the  clipping  of  the  scissors. 

Oily.  Your  hair  is  very  dry,  sir. 

Jones.  Oh!  indeed. 

Oily.  Our  Vegetable  Extract  moistens  it 

Jones.  I  like  it  dry. 


456  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Oily.     But,  sir,  the  hair  when  dry 
Turns  quickly  gray. 

Jones.     That  color  I  prefer. 

Oily.     But  hair,  when  gray,  will  rapidly  fall  off, 
And  baldness  will  ensue. 

Jones.     I  would  be  bald. 

Oily.     Perhaps  you  mean  to  say  you  'd  like  a  wig. — 
We  Ve  wigs  so  natural  they  can't  be  told 
From  real  hair. 

Jones.     Deception  I  detest. 

[Another  pause  ensues,  during  which  OILY  blows  down  JONES'  B  neck,  and  relieves 
him  from  the  linen  wrapper  in  which  he  has  been  enveloped  during  the  process 
of  hair-cutting. 

Oily.     We  've  brushes,  soaps,  and  scent,  of  every  kind. 
Jones.     I  see  you  have.     (Pays  Qd.)     I  think  you  '11  find  that 

right 

Oily.     If  there  is  nothing  I  can  show  you,  sir. 
Jones.     No  :  nothing.     Yet — there  may  be  something,  too, 
That  you  may  show  me. 
Oily.     Name  it,  sir. 
Jones.     The  door. 

[Exit  JONES. 

Oily  (to  his  man).     That 's  a  rum  customer  at  any  rate. 
Had  I  cut  him  as  short  as  he  cut  me, 
How  little  hair  upon  his  head  would  be ! 
But  if  kind  friends  will  all  our  pains  requite, 
We  '11  hope  for  better  luck  another  night. 

[Shop-bell  rings  and  curtain  falls. 


THE   SATED    ONE. 

[IMPROMPTU  AFTER  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.] 

IT  may  not  be — go  maidens,  go, 
Nor  tempt  me  to  the  mistletoe ; 
I  once  could  dance  beneath  its  bough, 
But  must  not,  will  not,  can  not,  now  ! 

A  weight — a  load  within  I  bear ; 
It  is  not  madness  nor  despair ; 
But  I  require  to  be  at  rest, 
So  that  my  burden  may — digest ! 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  457 


SAPPHICS  OF  THE  CABSTAND* 

PUNCH. 

Friend  of  Self-  Government. 

SEEDY  Cab-driver,  whither  art  thou  going  V 
Sad  is  thy  fate — reduced  to  law  and  order, 
Local  self-government  yielding  to  the  gripe  of 

Centralization. 

Victim  of  FITZROY  !  little  think  the  M.P.s, 

Lording  it  o'er  cab,  'bus,  lodging-house,  and  grave-yard, 

Of  the  good  times  when  every  Anglo  Saxon's 

House  was  his  castle. 

Say,  hapless  sufferer,  was  it  Mr.  CIIADWICK — 
Underground  foe  to  the  British  Constitution — 
Or  my  LORD  SIIAFTESBURY,  put  up  MR.  FITZROY 

Thus  to  assail  you  ? 

Was  it  the  growth  of  Continental  notions, 
Or  was  it  the  Metropolitan  police-force 
Prompted  this  blow  at  Laissez-faire,  that  free  and 

Easiest  of  doctrines  ? 

Have  you  not  read  Mr.  TOULMIX  SMITH'S  great  work  on 
Centralization  ?     If  you  have  n't,  buy  it ; 
Meanwhile  I  should  be  glad  at  once  to  hear  your 

View  on  the  subject. 

Cab-driver. 

View  on  the  subjeck  ?  jiggered  if  I  've  got  one ; 
Only  I  wants  no  centrylisin',  I  don't — 
Which  I  suppose  it's  a  crusher  standin'  sentry 

Hover  a  cabstand. 

Whereby  if  we  gives  e'er  a  word  o'  cheek  to 
Parties  as  rides,  they  pulls  us  up  like  winkin'— 
And  them  there  blessed  beaks  is  down  upon  us 

Dead  as  an  'ammer! 

•  See  page  384. 

20 


458  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

As  for  Mr.  TOULMIN  SMITH,  can't  say  I  knows  him — 
But  as  you  talks  so  worry  like  a  gem'man, 
Perhaps  you  're  goin  in  'ansome  style  to  stand  a 

Shillin'  a  mile,  sir  ? 


Friend  of  Self- Government. 

I  give  a  shilling?     I  will  see  thee  hanged  first — 
Sixpence  a  mile — or  drive  me  straight  to  Bow-street- 
Idle,  ill-mannered,  dissipated,  dirty, 

Insolent  rascal ! 


JUSTICE  TO   SCOTLAND* 

[AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM  BY  BURNS.] 

OOMMTmiCATED   BY   THE   EDINBTJRG    SOCIETY   FOE  PEOMOTING   CIVILIZATION    IN 
ENGLAND. 

PUNCH. 

0  MICKLE  yeuks  the  keckle  doup, 

An'  a'  unsicker  girns  the  graith, 
For  wae  and  wae  !  the  crowdies  loup 

O'er  jouk  an'  hallan,  braw  an'  baith. 
Where  ance  the  coggie  hirpled  fair, 

And  blithesome  poortith  toomed  the  loof, 
There 's  nae  a  burnie  giglet  rare 

But  blaws  in  ilka  jinking  coof. 

The  routine  bield  that  gars  the  gear 

Is  gone  where  glint  the  pawky  eon, 
And  aye  the  stound  is  birkin  lear 

Where  sconnered  yowies  wheeped  yestreen, 
The  creeshie  rax  wi'  skelpin'  kaes 

Nae  mair  the  howdie  bicker  whangs, 
Nor  weanies  in  their  wee  bit  claes 

Glour  light  as  lammies  wi'  their  sangs. 

Yet  leeze  me  on  my  bonnie  byke ! 
My  drappie  aiblins  blinks  the  noo, 

•  In  this  poora  the  Scottish  words  and  phrases  are  all  ludicrously  misapplied. 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  459 

An'  leesome  lave  has  lapt  the  dyke 

Forgatherin'  just  a  wee  bit  fou. 
And  SCOTIA  !  while  thy  rantin'  lunt 

Is  mirk  and  moop  with  gowans  fine, 
I  '11  stowlins  pit  my  unco  brunt, 

An'  cleek  my  duds  for  auld  lang  syne. 


THE  POETICAL  COOKERY-BOOK. 

PUNCH. 

THE  STEAK. 
Am—"  Tht  Sea." 

Or  Steak — of  Steak — of  prime  Rump  Steak — 

A  slice  of  half-inch  thickness  take, 

Without  a  blemish,  soft  and  sound ; 

In  weight  a  little  more  than  a  pound. 

Who  'd  cook  a  Stake — who  'd  cook  a  Steak — 

Must  a  fire  clear  proceed  to  make : 

With  the  red  above  and  the  red  below, 

In  one  delicious  genial  glow. 

If  a  coal  should  come,  a  blaze  to  make. 

Have  patience !   You  must  n't  put  on  your  Steak. 

First  rub — yes,  rub — with  suet  fat, 

The  gridiron's  bars,  then  on  it  flat 

Impose  the  meat ;  and  the  fire  soon 

Will  make  it  sing  a  delicious  tune. 

And  when  'tis  brown'd  by  the  genial  glow. 

Just  turn  the  upper  side  below. 

Both  sides  with  brown  being  corerM  o'er, 

For  a  moment  you  broil  your  Steak  no  more, 

But  on  a  hot  dish  let  it  rest. 

And  add  of  butter  a  slice  of  the  best ; 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  pepper-box  take, 

And  with  it  gently  dredge  your  Steak. 

When  sf^asoned  quite,  upon  the  fire 
Some  further  time  it  will  require ; 
And  over  and  over  be  sure  to  turn 
Your  Steak  tiH  done — nor  let  it  burn  ; 


460  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES 

For  nothing  drives  me  half  so  wild 
As  a  nice  Rump  Steak  in  the  cooking  spiled. 
I  've  lived  in  pleasure  mixed  with  grief, 
On  fish  and  fowl,  and  mutton  and  beef; 
With  plenty  of  cash,  and  power  to  range, 
But  my  Steak  I  never  wished  to  change : 
For  a  Steak  was  always  a  treat  to  me, 
At  breakfast,  luncheon,  dinner,  or  tea. 


ROASTED   SUCKING-PIG 
Are— "  Scots  wha  hoe." 

COOKS  who  'd  roast  a  Sucking-pig-. 
Purchase  one  not  over  big ; 
Coarse  ones  are  not  worth  a  fig ; 

So  a  young  one  buy. 
See  that  he  is  scalded  well 
(That  is  done  by  those  who  sell), 
Therefore  on  that  point  to  dwell, 

Were  absurdity. 


Sage  and  bread,  mix  just  enough, 
Salt  and  pepper  quantum  snff., 
And  the  Pig's  interior  stuff, 

With  the  whole  combined. 
To  a  fire  that 's  rather  high, 
Lay  it  till  completely  dry  ; 
Then  to  every  part  apply 

Cloth,  with  butter  lined. 


Dredge  with  flour  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  the  Pig  will  hold  no  more  ; 
Then  do  nothing  else  before 

'Tis  for  serving  fit. 
Then  scrape  off  the  flour  with  care 
Then  a  butter'd  cloth  prepare  ; 
Rub  it  well ;  then  cut — not  tear- 
Off  the  head  of  it. 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  461 

Then  take  out  and  mix  the  brains 
With  the  gravy  it  contains ; 
While  it  on  the  spit  remains, 

Cut  the  Pig  in  two. 
Chop  the  sage,  and  chop  the  bread 
Fine  as  very  finest  shred  ; 
O'er  it  melted  butter  spread — 

Stinginess  won't  do. 

When  it  in  the  dish  appears, 
Garnish  with  the  jaws  and  ears ; 
And  when  dinner-hour  nears, 

Ready  let  it  be. 
Who  can  offer  such  a  dish 
May  dispense  with  fowl  and  fish  ; 
And  if  he  a  guest  should  wish, 

Let  him  send  for  me  ! 


BEIGNET    DE    POMME. 
AIB — '•'•Home,  Sweet  Home." 

'MiD  fritters  and  lollipops  though  we  may  roam, 
On  the  whole,  there  is  nothing  like  Beignet  de  Pomme. 
Of  flour  a  pound,  with  a  glass  of  milk  share, 
And  a  half  pound  of  butter  the  mixture  will  bear. 

Pomme  !  Pomme  !  Beignet  de  Pomme ! 

Of  Beignets  there  's  none  like  the  Beignet  de  Pomme  ! 

A  Beignet  de  Pomme,  you  will  work  at  in  vain, 
If  you  stir  not  the  mixture  again  and  again ; 
Some  beer,  just  to  thin  it,  may  into  it  fall ; 
Stir  up  that,  with  three  whites  of  eggs,  added  to  all. 

Pomme  1  Pomme  !  Beignet  de  Pomme ! 

Of  Beignets  there  's  none  like  the  Beignet  de  Pomme  ! 

Six  apples,  when  peeled,  you  must  carefully  slice, 
And  cut  out  the  cores — if  you  '11  take  my  advice  ; 
Then  dip  them  in  batter,  and  fry  till  they  foam, 
And  you  '11  have  in  six  minutes  your  Beignet  de  Pomme. 
Pomme  !  Pomme  !  Beignet  de  Pomme  I 
Of  Beignets  there  's  none  like  the  Beignet  dt   Pomme ! 


462  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES 

CHERRY    PIE. 
AIE — "  Clierry  Ripe." 

CHERRY  PIE  !  Cherry  Pie !  Pie !  I  cry, 

Kentish  cherries  you  may  buy. 

If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 

To  put  the  fruit,  I  '11  answer  "  There  !" 

In  the  dish  your  fruit  must  lie, 

When  you  make  your  Cherry  Pie. 

Cherry  Pie  !  Cherry  Pie  !  etc. 

Cherry  Pie  !  Cherry  Pie  !  Pie  I  I  cry; 
Full  and  fair  ones  mind  you  buy 
Whereabouts  the  crust  should  go, 
Any  fool,  of  course  will  know  ; 
In  the  midst  a  cup  may  lie, 
When  you  make  your  Cherry  Pie. 

Cherry  Pie  !  Cherry  Pie  !  etc. 


DEYILED    BISCUIT. 
AE&— "  A  Temple  of  Friendship." 

"A  NICE  Devil'd  Biscuit,"  said  JENKINS  enchanted, 

"  I  '11  have  after  dinner — the  thought  is  divine  !" 
The  biscuit  was  bought,  and  he  now  only  wanted — 

To  fully  enjoy  it — a  glass  of  good  wine. 
He  flew  to  the  pepper,  and  sat  down  before  it, 

And  at  peppering  the  well-butter' d  biscuit  he  went ; 
Then,  some  cheese  in  a  paste  mix'd  with  mustard  spread  o'er  it, 

And  down  to  be  grill'd  to  the  kitchen  't  was  sent. 

"  Oh !  how,"  said  the  Cook,  "  can  I  this  think  of  grilling, 

When  common  the  pepper  ?  the  whole  will  be  flat 
But  here 's  the  Cayenne  ;  if  my  master  is  willing, 

I  '11  make,  if  he  pleases,  a  devil  with  that." 
So  the  Footman  ran  up  with  the  Cook's  observation 

To  JENKINS,  who  gave  him  a  terrible  look  : 
"  Oh,  go  to  the  devil !"  forgetting  his  station, 

Was  the  answer  that  JENKINS  sent  down  to  the  Cook. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  463 

RED    HERRINGS. 
AIR — "  Meet  me  by  Moonlight.'1'' 

MEET  me  at  breakfast  alone, 

And  then  I  will  give  you  a  dish 
Which  really  deserves  to  be  known, 

Though  it 's  not  the  genteelest  of  fish. 
You  must  promise  to  come,  for  I  said 

A  splendid  Red  Herring  I  'd  buy — 
Nay,  turn  not  away  your  proud  head  ; 

You  '11  like  it,  I  know,  when  you  try. 

If  moisture  the  Herring  betray, 

Drain,  till  from  moisture  'tis  free ; 
Warm  it  through  in  the  usual  way, 

Then  serve  it  for  you  and  for  me. 
A  piece  of  cold  butter  prepare, 

To  rub  it  when  ready  it  lies ; 
Egg-sauce  and  potatoes  don't  spare, 
°And  the  flavor  will  cause  you  surprise. 


IRISH    STEW. 
AIR— "-Happy  Land." 

IRISH  stew,  Irish  stew ! 

Whatever  else  my  dinner  be, 
Once  again,  once  again, 

I  'd  have  a  dish  of  thee. 

Mutton  chops,  and  onion  slice, 

Let  the  water  cover, 
With  potatoes,  fresh  and  nice ; 
Boil,  but  not  quite  over, 
Irish  stew,  Irish  stew  I 
Ne'er  from  thee,  my  taste  will  stray. 
I  could  eat 
Such  a  treat 
Nearly  every  day. 

La,  la,  la.  la  I 


464  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

BARLEY    BROTH. 
AIJS— "  The  King,  God  bless  him  /" 

A  BASIN  of  Barley  Broth  make,  make  for  me ; 

Give  those  who  prefer  it,  the  plain : 
No  matter  the  broth,  so  of  barley  it  be, 

If  we  ne'er  taste  a  basin  again. 
For,  oh !  when  three  pounds  of  good  mutton  you  buy, 

And  of  most  of  its  fat  dispossess  it, 
In  a  stewpan  uncover'd,  at  first,  let  it  lie ; 

Then  in  water  proceed  to  dress  it. 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah! 
In  a  stewpan  uncover'd,  at  first,  let  it  lie ; 

Then  in  water  proceed  to  dress  it. 

What  a  teacup  will  hold — you  should  first  have  been  told- 

Of  barley  you  gently  should  boil  ; 
The  pearl-barley  choose — 'tis  the  nicest  that 's  sold — 

All  others  the  mixture  might  spoil. 
Of  carrots  and  turnips,  small  onions,  green  peas 

(If  the  price  of  the  last  don't  distress  one), 
Mix  plenty ;  and  boil  altogether  with  these 

Your  basin  of  Broth  when  you  dress  one. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah !  hurrah ! 
Two  hours  together  the  articles  boil  ; 

There  's  your  basin  of  Broth,  if  you  'd  dress  one. 


CALF'S   HEART. 
AIB— "  Jfowd  of  Athens,  ere  toe  part" 

MAID  of  all  work,  as  a  part 
Of  my  dinner,  cook  a  heart ; 
Or,  since  such  a  dish  is  best, 
Give  me  that,  and  leave  the  rest. 
Take  my  orders,  ere  I  go ; 
Heart  of  calf  we  '11  cook  thee  so. 

Buy — to  price  you  're  not  confined — 
Such  a  heart  as  suits  your  mind : 
Buy  some  suet — and  enough 
Of  the  herbs  required  to  stuff; 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES 

Buy  some  lemon-peel — and,  oh ! 
Heart  of  calf,  we  '11  fill  thee  so. 

Buy  some  onions — just  a  taste — 
Buy  enough,  but  not  to  waste  ; 
Buy  two  eggs  of  slender  shell, 
Mix,  and  stir  the  mixture  well ; 
Crumbs  of  bread  among  it  throw ; 
Heart  of  calf  we  '11  roast  thee  so. 

Maid  of  all  work,  when  'tis  done, 
Serve  it  up  to  me  alone  : 
Rich  brown  gravy  round  it  roll, 
Marred  by  no  intruding  coal ; 
Currant  jelly  add — and  lo  ! 
Heart  of  calf,  I  '11  eat  thee  so. 


THE   CHRISTMAS  PUDDING. 
AIE — "Jeannette  and  Jeannot" 

IF  you  wish  to  make  a  pudding  in  which  every  one  delights, 
Of  a  dozen  new-laid  eggs  you  must  take  the  yolks  and  whites ; 
Beat  them  well  up  in  a  basin  till  they  thoroughly  combine, 
And  shred  and  chop  some  suet  particularly  fine ; 

Take  a  pound  of  well-stoned  raisins,  and  a  pound  of  currants 

dried, 

A  pound  of  pounded  sugar,  and  a  pound  of  peel  beside  ; 
Stir  them  all  well  up  together  with  a  pound  of  wheaten  flour, 
And  let  them  stand  and  settle  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour ; 

Then  tie  the  pudding  in  a  cloth,  and  put  it  in  the  pot, — 

Some  people  like  the  water  cold,  and  some  prefer  it  hot  ; 

But  though  I  don't  know  which  of  these  two  me'thods  I  should 

praise, 
I  know  it  ought  to  boil  an  hour  for  every  pound  it  weighs. 

Oh  !  if  I  were  Queen  of  France,  or,  still  better,  Pope  of  Rome, 
I  'd  have  a  Christmas  pudding  every  day  I  dined  at  home ; 
And  as  for  other  puddings  whatever  they  might  be, 
Why  those  who  like  the  nasty  things  should  eat  them  all  for  me. 

20* 


466  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES 

APPLE    PIE . 
Ai»— "  All  that's  bright  must  fade." 

ALL  new  dishes  fade — 

The  newest  oft  the  fleetest ; 
Of  all  the  pies  now  made, 

The  Apple's  still  the  sweetest  ; 
Cut  and  come  again, 

The  syrup  upward  springing ! 
While  my  life  and  taste  remain, 

To  thee  my  heart  is  clinging. 
Other  dainties  fade — 

The  newest  oft  the  fleetest ; 
But  of  all  the  pies  now  made, 

The  Apple's  still  the  sweetest. 

Who  absurdly  buys 

Fruit  not  worth  the  baking  ? 
Who  wastes  crust  on  pies 

That  do  not  pay  for  making  ? 
Better  far  to  be 

An  Apple  Tartlet  buying, 
Than  to  make  one  at  home,  and  see 

On  it  there 's  no  relying : 
That  all  must  be  weigh'd, 

When  thyself  thou  treatest — 
Still  a  pie  home-made 

Is,  after  all,  the  sweetest. 

Who  a  pie  would  make, 

First  his  apple  slices ; 
Then  he  ought  to  take 

Some  cloves — the  best  of  spices  : 
trrate  some  lemon  rind, 

Butter  add  discreetly ; 
Then  some  sugar  mix — but  mind 

The  pie 's  not  made  too  sweetly. 
Every  pie  that 's  made 

With  sugar,  is  completest ; 
But  moderation  should  pervade — 

Too  sweet  is  not  the  sweetest. 


PARODIES     AND     BUKLESQUES.  467 

Who  would  tone  impart, 

Must — if  my  word  is  trusted — 
Add  to  his  pie  or  tart 

A  glass  of  port — old  crusted  : 
If  a  man  of  taste, 

He,  complete  to  make  it, 
In  the  very  finest  paste 

Will  inclose  and  bake  it. 
Pies  have  each  their  grade  ; 

But,  when  this  thou  eatest, 
Of  all  that  e'er  were  made, 

Yon  '11  say  'tis  best  and  sweetest. 


LOBSTER  SALAD, 
AIB. — "  Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border.' 

TAKE,  take,  lobsters  and  lettuces ; 

Mind  that  they  send  you  the  fish  that  you  order : 
Tuke,  take,  a  decen1>sized  salad  bowl, 

One  that 's  sufficiently  deep  in  the  border. 
Cut  into  many  a  slice 
All  of  the  fish  that 's  nice, 
Place  in  the  bowl  with  due  neatness  and  order : 
Then  hard-boil'd  eggs  you  may 
Add  in  a  neat  array 
AJ1  round  the  bowl,  just  by  way  of  a  border. 

1  ake  from  the  cellar  of  salt  a  proportion  : 

Take  from  the  castors  both  pepper  and  oil, 
With  vinegar,  too — but  a  moderate  portion — 
Too  much  of  acid  your  salad  will  spoil. 
Mix  them  together, 
You  need  not  mind  whether 
You  blend  them  exactly  in  apple-pie  order ; 
But  when  you  've  stirr'd  away, 
Mix  up  the  whole  you  may — 
All  but  the  eggs,  which  are  used  as  a  border. 

Take,  take,  plenty  of  seasoning ; 

A  teaspoon  of  parsley  that 's  chopp'd  in  small  pieces 
Though,  though,  the  point  will  bear  reasoning, 

A  small  taste  of  onion  the  flavor  increases. 


408  PARODIES     AND    BUKLESQUES 

As  the  sauce  curdle  may, 

Should  it :  the  process  stay, 
Patiently  do  it  again  in  due  order ; 

For,  if  you  chance  to  spoil 

Vinegar,  eggs,  and  oil, 
Still  to  proceed  would  on  lunacy  border. 


STEWED  STEAK 
AIB.— "Had  la  Heart  for  Falsehood  Framed." 

HAD  I  pound  of  tender  Steak, 

I  'd  use  it  for  a  stew  ; 
And  if  the  dish  you  would  partake, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  to  do. 
Into  a  stew-pan,  clean  and  neat, 

Some  butter  should  be  flung  : 
And  with  it  stew  your  pound  of  meat, 

A  tender  piece — but  young. 

And  when  you  find  the  juice  express'd 

By  culinary  art, 
To  draw  the  gravy  off,  were  best, 

And  let  it  stand  apart. 
Then,  lady,  if  you  'd  have  a  treat, 

Be  sure  you  can't  be  wrong 
To  put  more  butter  to  your  meat, 

Nor  let  it  stew  too  long. 

And  when  the  steak  is  nicely  done, 

To  take  it  off  were  best ; 
And  gently  let  it  fry  alone, 

Without  the  sauce  or  zest ; 
Then  add  the  gravy — with  of  wine 

A  spoonful  in  it  flung ; 
And  a  shalot  cut  very  fine — 

Let  the  shalot  be  young. 

And  when  the  whole  has  been  combined, 

More  stewing  't  will  require ; 
Ton  minutes  will  suffice — but  mind, 

Don't  have  too  quick  a  fire. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  469 

Then  serve  it  up — 't  will  form  a  treat ! 

Nor  fear  you  've  cook'd  it  wrong ; 
Gourmets  in  all  the  old  't  will  meet, 

And  gourmands  in  the  young. 


GREEN    PEA    SOUP. 
Am— "  The  Ivy  Green." 

OH  !  a  splendid  Soup  is  the  true  Pea  Green  • 

I  for  it  often  call ; 
And  up  it  comes  in  a  smart  tureen, 

When  I  dine  in  my  banquet  hall. 
When  a  leg  of  mutton  at  home  is  boil'd, 

The  liquor  I  always  keep, 
And  in  that  liquor  (before  'tis  spoil'd) 

A  peck  of  peas  I  steep. 
When  boil'd  till  tender  they  have  been, 
I  rub  through  a  sieve  the  peas  so  green. 

Though  the  trouble  the  indolent  may  shock, 

I  rub  with  all  my  power ; 
And  having  return'd  them  to  the  stock, 

I  stew  them  for  more  than  an  hour : 
Then  of  younger  peas  I  take  some  more, 

The  mixture  to  improve, 
Thrown  in  a  little  time  before 

The  soup  from  the  fire  I  move. 
Then  seldom  a  better  soup  is  seen, 
Than  the  old  familiar  soup  Pea  Green. 

Since  first  I  began  my  household  career, 

How  many  my  dishes  have  been ! 
But  the  one  that  digestion  never  need  fear, 

Is  the  simple  old  soup  Pea  Green. 
The  giblet  may  tire,  the  gravy  pall, 

And  the  turtle  lose  its  charm ; 
But  the  Green  Pea  triumphs  over  them  all, 

And  does  not  the  slightest  harm. 
Smoking  hot  in  a  smart  tureen, 
A  rare  soup  is  the  true  Pea  Green  I 


470  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

TRIFLE. 
Am— "  The  Meeting  of  Hie,  Waters." 

THERE'S  not  in  the  wide  world  so  tempting  a  sweet 
As  that  Trifle  where  custard  and  macaroons  meet ; 
Oh  !  the  latest  sweet  tooth  from  my  head  must  depart 
Ere  the  taste  of  that  Trifle  shall  not  win  my  heart. 

Yet  it  is  not  the  sugar  that 's  thrown  in  between, 
Nor  the  peel  of  the  lemon  so  candied  and  green ; 
'Tis  not  the  rich  cream  that 's  whipp'd  up  by  a  mill : 
Oh,  no !  it  is  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'Tis  that  nice  macaroons  in  the  dish  I  have  laid, 
Of  which  a  delicious  foundation  is  made ; 
And  you  '11  find  how  the  last  will  in  flavor  improve, 
When  soak'd  with  the  wine  that  you  pour  in  above. 

Sweet  plateau  of  Trifle !  how  great  is  my  zest 
For  thee,  when  spread  o'er  with  the  jam  I  love  best  ; 
When  the  cream  white  of  eggs — to  be  over  thee  thrown. 
With  a  whisk  kept  on  purpose — is  mingled  in  one  I 


MUTTON    CHOPS. 
AIB — "  Come  dwell  with  me." 

COME  dine  with  me,  come  dine  with  me, 
And  our  dish  shall  be,  our  dish  shall  be, 
A  Mutton  Chop  from  the  butcher's  shop — 
And  how  I  cook  it  you  shall  see. 
The  Chop  I  choose  is  not  too  lean ; 
For  to  cut  off  the  fat  I  mean. 
Then  to  the  fire  I  put  it  down, 
And  let  it  fry  until  'tis  brown. 

Come  dine  with  me ;  yes,  dine  with  me,  etc. 

I  '11  fry  some  bread  cut  rather  fine, 
To  place  betwixt  each  chop  of  mine  ; 
Some  spinach,  or  some  cauliflowers, 
May  ornament  this  dish  of  ours. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  471 

I  will  not  let  thee  once  repine 
At  having  come  with  me  to  dine  : 
'T  will  be  my  pride  to  hear  thee  say, 
"  I  have  enjoy'd  my  Chop,  to-day." 

Come,  dine  with  me  ;  yes,  dine  with  me  ; 

Dine,  dine,  dine,  with  me,  etc. 


BARLEY    WATER. 
AIB— "  On  the  Banks  of  Allan  Water." 

FOR  a  jug  of  Barley  Water 

Take  a  saucepan  not  too  small ; 
Give  it  to  your  wife  or  daughter, 

If  within  your  call. 
If  her  duty  you  have  taught  her, 

Very  willing  each*  will  be 
To  prepare  some  Barley  Water 

Cheerfully  for  thee. 

For  a  jug  of  Barley  Water, 

Half  a  gallon,  less  or  more, 
From  the  filter  that  you  bought  her, 

Ask  your  wife  to  pour. 
When  a  saucepan  you  have  brought  her 

Polish' d  bright  as  bright  can  be, 
In  it  empty  all  the  water, 

Either  you  or  she. 

For  your  jug  of  Barley  Water 

('Tis  a  drink  by  no  means  bad), 
Some  two  ounces  and  a  quarter 

Of  pearl  barley  add. 
When  'tis  boiling,  let  your  daughter 

Skim  from  blacks  to  keep  it  free ; 
Added  to  your  Barley  Water 

Lemon  rind  should  be. 

For  your  jug  of  Barley  Water 

(I  have  made  it  very  oft), 
It  must  boil,  so  tell  your  daughter, 

Till  the  barley's  soft. 


472  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES. 

Juice  of  a  small  lemon's  quarter 
Add ;  then  sweeten  all  like  tea ; 

Strain  through  sieve  your  Barley  Water — 
'T  will  delicious  be. 


BOILED    CHICKEN. 
AIB — "  Norah  Creina." 

LESBIA  hath  a  fowl  to  cook  ; 

But,  being  anxious  not  to  spoil  it, 
Searches  anxiously  our  book, 

For  how  to  roast,  and  how  to  boil  it. 
Sweet  it  is  to  dine  upon — 

Quite  alone,  when  small  its  size  is; — 
And,  when  cleverly  'tis  done, 
Its  delicacy  quite  surprises. 

Oh !  my  tender  pullet  dear  ! 
My  boiled — not  roasted — tender  Chicken  I 
I  can  wish 
No  other  dish, 
With  thee  supplied,  my  tender  Chicken  I 

Lesbia,  take  some  water  cold, 

And  having  on  the  fire  placed  it, 
And  some  butter,  and  be  bold — 

When  'tis  hot  enough — taste  it. 
Oh  !  the  Chicken  meant  for  me 

Boil  before  the  fire  grows  dimmer ; 
Twenty  minutes  let  it  be 

In  the  saucepan  left  to  simmer. 

Oh,  my  tender  Chicken  dear ! 
My  boil'd,  delicious,  tender  Chicken  I 
Rub  the  breast 
(To  give  a  zest) 
With  lemon-juice,  my  tender  Chicken. 

Lesbia  hath  with  sauce  combined 
Broccoli  white,  without  a  tarnish  j 

'Tis  hard  to  tell  if  'tis  design'd 
For  vegetable  or  for  garnish. 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  473 

Pillow'd  on  a  butter'd  dish, 

My  Chicken  temptingly  reposes, 
Making  gourmands  for  it  wish, 

Should  the  savor  reach  their  noses. 

Oh,  my  tender  pullet  dear  ! 
My  boiled — not  roasted — tender  Chicken ! 
Day  or  night, 
Thy  meal  is  light, 
For  supper,  e'en,  my  tender  Chicken. 


STEWED   DUCK   AND   PEAS. 
AIB— "My  Heart  and  Lute." 

I  GIVE  thee  all,  I  can  no  more, 

Though  poor  the  dinner  be  ; 
Stew'd  Duck  and  Peas  are  all  the  store 

That  I  can  offer  thee. 
A  Duck,  whose  tender  breast  reveals 

Its  early  youth  full  well ; 
And  better  still,  a  Pea  that  peels 

From  fresh  transparent  shell. 

Though  Duck  and  Peas  may  fail,  alas! 

One's  hunger  to  allay  ; 
At  least  for  luncheon  they  may  pass, 

The  appetite  to  stay. 
If  seasoned  Duck  an  odor  bring 

From  which  one  would  abstain, 
The  Peas,  like  fragrant  breath  of  Spring, 

Set  all  to  rights  again. 

I  give  thee  all  my  kitchen  lore, 

Though  poor  the  offering  be ; 
I  '11  tell  thee  how  'tis  cook'd,  before 

You  come  to  dine  with  me : 
The  Duck  is  truss'd  from  head  to  heels, 

Then  stew'd  with  butter  well ; 
And  streaky  bacon,  which  reveals 

A  most  delicious  smell. 


474  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

"When  Duck  and  Bacon  in  a  mass 

You  in  the  stew-pan  lay, 
A  spoon  around  the  vessel  pass, 

And  gently  stir  away : 
A  table-spoon  of  flour  bring, 

A  quart  of  water  bring, 
Then  in  it  twenty  onions  fling, 

And  gently  stir  again. 

A  bunch  of  parsley,  and  a  leaf 

Of  ever- verdant  bay, 
Two  cloves — I  make  my  language  brief — 

Then  add  your  Peas  you  may  ! 
And  let  it  simmer  till  it  sings 

In  a  delicious  strain, 
Then  take  your  Duck,  nor  let  the  strings 

For  trussing  it  remain. 

The  parsley  fail  not  to  remove, 

Also  the  leaf  of  bay  ; 
Dish  up  your  Duck — the  sauce  improve 

In  the  accustom' d  way, 
With  pepper,  salt,  and  other  things, 

I  need  not  here  explain : 
And,  if  the  dish  contentment  brings, 

You  '11  dine  with  me  again. 


CURRY. 

THREE  pounds  of  veal  my  darling  girl  prepares, 
And  chops  it  nicely  into  little  squares ; 
Five  onions  next  prepares  the  little  minx 
(The  biggest  are  the  best  her  Samiwel  thinks). 
And  Epping  butter,  nearly  half  a  pound, 
And  stews  them  in  a  pan  until  they  're  brown'd. 

What 's  next  my  dexterous  little  girl  will  do  ? 
She  pops  the  meat  into  the  savory  stew, 
With  curry  powder,  table-spoonfulls  three, 
And  milk  a  pint  (the  richest  that  may  be) ; 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  475 

And,  when  the  dish  has  stewed  for  half-an-hour, 
A  lemon's  ready  juice  she  '11  o'er  it  pour: 
Then,  bless  her  !  then  she  gives  the  luscious  pot 
A  very  gentle  boil — and  serves  quite  hot. 

P.  S.  Beef,  mutton,  rabbit,  if  you  wish ; 
Lobsters,  or  prawns,  or  any  kind  of  fish 
Are  fit  to  make  A  CURRY.     Tis,  when  done, 
A  dish  for  emperors  to  feed  upon. 


THE    RAILWAY    GILPIN. 

PUNCH. 

JOHN  GILPIN  is  a  citizen  ; 

For  lineage  of  renown, 
The  famed  JOHN  GILPIN'S  grandson,  he 

Abides  in  London  town. 

To  our  JOHN  GILPIN  said  his  dear, 

"  Stewed  up  here  as  we  've  been 
Since  Whitsuntide,  'tis  time  that  we 

Should  have  a  change  of  scene. 

"  To-morrew  is  a  leisure  day, 

And  we  '11  by  rail  repair 
Unto  the  Nell  at  Dedmanton, 

And  take  a  breath  of  air. 

"  My  sister  takes  our  eldest  child ; 

The  youngest  of  our  three 
Will  go  in  arms,  and  so  the  ride 

Won't  so  expensive  be." 

JOHN  soon  replied,  "  I  don't  admire 

That  railway,  I,  for  one  ; 
But  you  know  best,  my  dearest  dear, 

And  so  it  must  be  done. 

"I,  as  a  linen-draper  bold, 

Will  bear  myself,  and  though 
'Tis  Friday  by  the  calendar, 

Will  risk  my  limbs,  and  go." 


476  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Quoth  MISTRESS  GILPIN,  "  Nicely  said : 

And  then,  besides,  look  here, 
We  '11  go  by  the  Excursion  Train, 

Which  makes  it  still  less  dear." 

JOHN  GILPIN  poked  his  clever  wife, 

And  slightly  smiled  to  find 
That  though  on  peril  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  careful  mind. 

The  morning  came ;  a  cab  was  sought : 

The  proper  time  allow'd 
To  reach  the  station  door ;  but  lo  ! 

Before  it  stood  a  crowd. 

For  half  an  hour  they  there  were  stay'd, 

And  when  they  did  get  in — 
"  No  tram  1  a  hoax  1"  cried  clerks,  agog 

To  swear  through  thick  and  thin, 

"  Yaa  1"  went  the  throats ;  stamp  went  the  heels 

Were  never  folks  so  mad, 
The  disappointment  dire  beneath ; 

All  cried  "  it  was  too  bad  1" 

JOHN  GILPIN  home  would  fain  have  hied, 

But  he  must  needs  remain, 
Commanded  by  his  willful  bride, 

And  take  the  usual  train. 

'T  was  long  before  our  passengers 

Another  train  could  find, 
When — stop  !  one  ticket  for  the  fares 

Was  lost  or  left  behind  ! 

"  Good  lack  !"  quoth  JOHN,  "yet  try  it  on." 
"  'T  won't  do,"  the  Guard  replies  ; 

And  bearing  wife  and  babes  on  board, 
The  train  without  him  flies. 

Now  see  him  in  a  second  train, 

Behind  the  iron  steed, 
Borne  on,  slap  dash — for  life  or  bones 

With  small  concern  or  heed. 


P/RODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  47  Y 

Away  went  GILPIN,  neck  or  naught, 

Exclaiming,  "  Dash  my  wig  1 
Oh,  here's  a  game  !  oh,  here 's  a  go  ! 

A  running  such  a  rig !" 

A  signal,  hark ! — the  whistle  screamed — 

Smash !  went  the  windows  all : 
"  An  accident !"  cried  out  each  one, 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  GILPIN,  never  mind — 

His  brain  seemed  spinning  round  ; 
Thought  he,  "  This  speed  a  killing  pace 

Will  prove,  I  '11  bet  a  pound  !" 

And  still,  as  stations  they  drew  near, 

The  whistle  shrilly  blew, 
And  in  a  trice,  past  signal-men, 

The  train  like  lightning  flew. 


Thus,  all  through  merry  Killbury. 

Without  a  stop  shot  they  ; 
But  paused,  to  'scape  a  second  smash, 

At  Dedmanton  so  gay. 

At  Dedmanton  his  loving  wife, 

On  platform  waiting,  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  striving  much 

To  let  himself  outside. 

"  Hallo  !  JOHN  GILPIN,  here  we  are — 
Come  out!"  they  all  did  cry  ; 

"To  death  with  waiting  we  are  tired!" 
"Guard!"  shouted  GILPIN,  "Hi I" 

But  no — the  train  was  not  a  bit 

Arranged  to  tarry  there, 
For  why  ? — because  't  was  an  Express, 

And  did  dispatches  bear. 

So,  in  a  second,  off"  it  flew 

Again,  and  dashed  along, 
As  if  the  deuce  't  were  going  to, 

With  motive  impulse  strong. 


478  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Away  went  GILPIN,  on  the  breath 

Of  puffing  steam,  until 
They  came  unto  their  journey's  end, 

Where  they  at  last  stood  still. 

And  then — best  thing  that  he  could  do — 
He  book'd  himself  for  Town ; 

They  stopped  at  every  station  up, 
Till  he  again  got  down. 

Says  GILPIN,  "  Sing,  Long  live  the  QUEEN, 

And  eke  long  life  to  me  ; 
And  ere  I  '11  trust  that  Line  again, 

Myself  I  blest  will  see  !" 


ELEGY, 

WRITTEN   IN   A    RAILWAY    STATION. 

PUNCH. 

THE  Station  clock  proclaims  the  close  of  day  ; 

The  hard-worked  clerks  drop  gladly  off  to  tea : 
The  last  train  starts  upon  its  dangerous  way, 

And  leaves  the  place  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  panting  engine's  red  tail-light, 
And  all  the  platform  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  watchmen,  pacing  for  the  night, 
By  smothered  coughs  announce  their  several  colds. 

Behind  that  door  of  three-inch  planking  made, 
Those  frosted  panes  placed  too  high  up  to  peep, 

All  in  their  iron  safes  securely  laid, 

The  cooked  account-books  of  the  Eailway  sleep. 

The  Debts  to  credit  side  so  neatly  borne, 

What  should  be  losses,  profits  proved  instead  ; 

The  Dividends  those  pages  that  adorn 

No  more  shall  turn  the  fond  Shareholder's  head. 

Oft  did  the  doubtful  to  their  balance  yield. 

Their  evidence  arithmetic  could  choke : 
How  jocund  were  they  that  to  them  appealed ! 

How  many  votes  of  thanks  did  they  provoke  ! 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  479 

Let  not  Derision  mock  KING  HUDSON'S  toil, 

Who  made  things  pleasant  greenhorns  to  allure ; 

Nor  prudery  give  hard  names  unto  the  spoil 

'T  was  glad  to  share — while  it  could  share  secure. 

All  know  the  way  that  he  his  fortune  made, 
How  he  bought  votes  and  consciences  did  hire  ; 

How  hands  that  Gold  and  Silver-sticks  have  swayed 
To  grasp  his  dirty  palm  would  oft  aspire, 

Till  these  accounts  at  last  their  doctored  page, 
Thanks  to  mischance  and  panic,  did  unroll, 

When  virtue  suddenly  became  the  rage, 

And  wiped  George  Hudson  out  of  fashion's  scroll. 

Full  many  a  noble  Lord  who  once  serene 
The  feasts  at  Albert  Gate  was  glad  to  share, 

For  tricks  he  blushed  not  at,  or  blushed  unseen, 
Now  cuts  the  Iron  King  with  vacant  stare. 

For  those  who,  mindful  of  their  money  fled, 

Rejoice  m  retribution,  sure  though  late — 
Should  they,  by  ruin  to  reflection  led, 

Ask  Punch  to  point  the  moral  of  his  fate, 

Haply  that  wooden-headed  sage  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  I  seen  him,  in  his  fortune's  dawn, 

When  at  his  levees  elbowing  their  way, 

Peer's  ermine  might  be  seen  and  Bishop's  lawn. 

"  There  the  great  man  vouchsafed  in  turn  to  each 
Advice,  what  scrip  or  shares  't  was  best  to  buy, 

There  his  own  arts  his  favorites  he  would  teach, 
And  put  them  up  to  good  things  on  the  sly. 

"Till  to  the  House  by  his  admirers  borne, 

Warmed  with  Champagne  in  flustered  speech  he  strove, 
And  on  through  commerce,  colonies,  and  corn, 

Like  engine,  without  break  or  driver,  drove. 

"  Till  when  he  ceased  to  dip  in  fortune's  till, 
Out  came  one  cooked  account — of  our  M.  P. ; 

Another  came — yet  men  scarce  ventured,  still, 
To  think  their  idol  such  a  rogue  could  In-. 


480  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

u  Until  those  figures  set  in  sad  array 

Proved  how  his  victims  he  had  fleeced  and  shorn — 
Approach  and  read- (if  thou  canst  read)  my  lay, 

Writ  on  him  more  in  sadness  than  in  scorn." 


THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  the  gilt  rubbed  off  his  sordid  earth, 
A  man  whom  Fortune  made  to  Fashion  known ; 

Though  void  alike  of  breeding,  parts,  or  birth, 
God  Mammon  early  marked  him  for  his  own. 

Large  was  his  fortune,  but  he  bought  it  dear ; 

When  he  won  foully  he  did  freely  spend. 
He  plundered  no  one  knows  how  much  a-year, 

But  Chancery  o'ertook  him  in  the  end. 

No  further  seek  his  frailties  to  disclose : 

For  many  of  his  sins  should  share  the  load  : 

While  he  kept  rising,  who  asked  how  he  rose  ? 

While  we  could  reap,  what  cared  we  how  he  sowed  ? 


THE   BOA   AND   THE  BLANKET.* 

AN   APOLOGUE    OF    THE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. [AFTER    WARREN.] 

PUNCH. 

IT  is  talked  of  Now  !     Was  talked  of  Yesterday ! 
May  be  muttered  to-morrow !     What  ? — 
THE  BOA  THAT  BOLTED  THE  BLANKET, 
Speckled  Enthusiast  1 

It  was  full  moon's  fall  moonlight !     The  Shilling 

I  had  paid  down  at  the  Gate 

Seem'd  hung  in  Heaven.     To  NEWTON'S  Eye 

(As  Master  of  the  Mint). 

A  Splendid,  yea,  Celestial. Shilling! 

I  was  alone,  with  Nothing  to  Speak  of 

But  Creation ! 

*  A  few  days  before  this  burlesque  of  Warren  appeared,  a  boa-constrictor  i» 
the  London  Zoological  Gardens  swallowed  the  blanket  that  had  served  as  its  bed. 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  481 

Yes !  Gigantic  NOAH'S  Ark  of  twenty  times  her  tonnage, 

Lay  crouch'd,  and  purring,  and  velvety,  and  fanged 

About  me ! 

Cane-colored  tigers — rug-spotted  Leopards — 

Snakes  (ah,  CUPID  !)  knit  and  interknit — to  true  love  knots 

Semblable  ! 

Striped  Zebra — Onager  Calcitrant — Common  Ass, 

And  I — and  all  were  there  ! 

The  bushy  Squirrel  with  his  half-cracked  Nut, 

Slept.     The  Boar  of  Allemagne  snored. 

The  Lion's  Cage  was  hot  with  heat  of  blood : 

And  Peace  in  Curtain  Ring  linked  two  Ring  Doves ! 

In  Gardens  Zoological  and  Regent, 

I,  meditating,  stood! 

And  still  the  moon  looked  wondrous  like  a  Shilling, 

Impartial  Moon,  that  showed  me  all. 

My  heart  fluttered  as  tho'  winged  from  Mercury ! 

I  moved — approached  the  Snake-House  ! 

Oh,  the  bairn  of  Paradise  that  came  and  went  I 

The  silver  gleams  of  Eden  shooting  down  the  trembling  strings 

Of  my  melodious  heart ! 

Down — down  to  its  coral  roots ! 

I  dashed  aside  the  human  tear ;  and — yes — prepared  myself 

With  will,  drunk  from  the  eyes  of  Hope,  to  gaze  upon  the  Snake  ! 

The  Boa ! ! 

The  Python  ! ! ! 

The  Anaconda ! ! ! ! 

A  Boa  was  there  !     A  Boa,  'neath  Crystal  Roof! 

And  rabbits,  taking  the  very  moonlight  in  their  paws. 

Washed  their  meek  faces.     Washed,  then  hopped ! 

"And  so  (I  couldn't  help  it)  so,"   I  groaned — "the  ancient 

Snake — 

That  milk-white  thing — and  innocent — trustful ! 
And  then,  Death — Death — 
And  lo !  there,  typical,  it  is — it  is —  , 
THE  BLANKET ! ! 

Death  shred  of  living  thing  that  cropped  the  flower ; 
And,  thoughtless,  bleated  forth  its  little  baa-a !" 
21 


482  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Away  I  I  will  not  tarry  !     Let  the  Boa  sleep, 

And  Rabbits,  that  have  given  bills  to  destiny, 

Meet  his  demand  at  three  and  six  months'  date  ! 

(We  know  such  Boas  and  rabbits, 

Know  we  not  ?) 

Let  me  pass  on ! 

And  here  'tis  cool ;  nay,  even  cold 

Without  the  Snake-House ! 

The  Moon  still  glistens,  and  again  I  think 

Of  Multitudes  who  've  paid  and  stared,  and  yawned  and  wan 
dered  here ! 

The  city  muckworm,  who 
From  peacock  orient,  scarce  could  tell  a  cock 
Of  hay! 

Though  be  ye  sure,  a  guinea  from  a  guinea-pig 
He  knows,  and  (as  for  money) 
Ever  has  his  squeak  for 't ! 
Here,  too,  paused  the  wise,  sagacious  man, 
Master  of  probabilities ! 

He  sees  the  tusk  of  elephant — the  two  tusks — 
And,  with  a  thought,  cuts  'em  into  cubes — 
And  with  another  thought — another — and  another — 
Tells  (to  himself)  how  oft,  in  twenty  years 
Those  spotted  squares  shall  come  up  sixes ! 
And  this  in  living  elephant ! 

And  HER  MAJESTY  has  trod  these  Walks, 

Accompanied 

By 

PRINCE  ALBERT, 

THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES. 
THE  PRINCESS  ROYAL, 

And 
The  Rest  of  the  Royal  Children  I— 

She  saw  the  Tiger  I 

Did  she  think  of  TIPPOO  SAIB'S  Tiger's  Head? 

She  saw  the  Lion ! 

Thought  she  of  one  of  her  own  Arms  ? 

She  did  not  see  the  Unicorn  ;  but 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  483 

(With  her  gracious  habits  of  condescension) 
Did  she  think  of  him  a  bit  the  less  ? 

Thoughts  crowd  upon  me — cry  move  on !  • 

And  now  I  am  here ;  and  whether  I  will  or  no, 

I  feel  I  'm  jolly  ! 

The  Chameleons  are  asleep,  and,  like  the  Cabinet 

(Of  course  I  mean  the  Whigs), 

Know  not,  when  they  rise  to-morrow, 

What  color  they  will  wake ! — 

The  baby  elephant  seems  prematurely  old  : 

Its  infant  hide  all  corrugate  with  thoughts 

Of  cakes  and  oranges  given  it  by  boys ; 

Alas !  in  Chancery  now,  and  paralytic ! 

This  is  very  sad.     No  more  of  it ! 


Ha!  ha!  here  sits  the  Ape — the  many-colored  wight! 

Thou  hast  marked  him,  with  nose  of  scarlet  sealing-wax, 

And  so  be-colored  with  prismatic  hues, 

As  though  he  had  come  from  sky  to  earth — 

Sliding  and  wiping  a  fresh-painted  rainbow  ! 

Hush !  I  have  made  a  perfect  circle  ! 

And  at  the  Snake-House  once  again  I  stand  ! 

Such  is  life ! 

Eh  !     Oh  !     Help  !     Murder !     Dreadful  Accident ! 

To  be  conceived — Oh,  perhaps ! 

Described — Oh,  never  ! 

Keepers  are  up,  and  crowd  about  the  box — 

The  Boa's  box — with  unconcerned  rabbits  ! 

Not  so  the  Boa  1     Look  !     Behold  ! 

And  where  's  the  Blanket  ? 

In  the  Boa's  inside  place  !     The  Monster  mark ! 

How  he  writhes  and  wrestles  with  the  wool,  as  though 

He  had  within  him  rolls  and  rolls 

Of  choking,  suffocating  influenza, 

That  lift,  his  eyes  from  out  their  sockets  ! — Of  fleecy  phlegm 

That  will  neither  in  or  out,  but  mid-way 

Seem  to  strangle ! 

Silence  and  wonder  settle  on  the  crowd ; 

From  whom  instinctively  and  breathlessly, 


484  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Ascend  two  pregnant  questions ! 
"  WiU  the  Boa  bolt  the  blanket  ? 
Will  the  blanket  choke  the  Boa  ?" 
Such  the  problem ! 

And  then  men  mark  and  deduce 
Differently. 

"The  Blanket  is  England :  the  Boa  the  Pope, 
WiU  the  Pope  disgorge  his  Butt  F" 

"The  Blanket's  Free  Trade:  the  Corn- Gorged  Folk 
Is  the  Boa  with  plenty  stifted  /" 

lThe  Blanket's  Reform  to  gag  the  mob, 
And  naught  to  satisfy  /" 

But  I,  a  lofty  and  an  abstract  man, 

A  creature  of  a  higher  element 

Than  ever  nourished  the  wood 

Ordained  for  ballot-boxes — I 

Say  nothing;  until  a  Keeper  comes  to  me,  and. 

Hooking  his  fore-finger  in  his  forehead's  lock, 

Says — "  What 's  your  opinion,  Sir  ? 

If  Boas  will  bolt  Blankets,  Boas  must : 

If  Snakes  will  rush  upon  their  end,  why  not  ?" 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  The  Blanket  and  the  Boa — 

You  will  conceive  me — are  a  type,  yes,  just  a  type. 

Of  this  our  day. 

The  dumb  and  monstrous,  tasteless  appetite 

Of  stupid  Boa,  to  gobble  up  for  food 

What  needs  must  scour  or  suffocate, 

Not  nourish ! 

My  friend ;  let  the  wool  of  that  one  blanket 

Warm  but  the  back  of  one  live  sheep, 

And  the  Boa  would  bolt  the  animal  entire, 

And  flourish  on  his  meal,  transmuting  flesh  and  bones, 

And  turning  them  to  healthful  nutriment ! 

Believe  this  vital  truth ; 

The  stomach  may  take  down  and  digest 

And  sweetly,  too,  a  leg  of  mutton  ; 

That  would  turn  at  and  reject 

One  little  ball  of  worsted!'' 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  485 

On  saying  this  I  turned  away , 

Feeling  adown  the  small-o'-the  back 

That  gentle  warmth  that  waits  upon  us,  when  WE  KNOW 

We  have  said  a  good  thing; 

Knowing  it  better  than  the  vain  world 

Ever  can  or  ever  will. 

Reader,  I  have  sung  my  song ! 

The  Boa  and  the  B ,  like  new-found  star, 

Is  mine  no  longer ;  but  the  world's  1 — 

Tell  me,  how  have  I  sung  it  ?     With  what  note  ? 

With  note  akin  to  that  immortal  bard 

The  snow-white  Swan  of  Avon  ? 

Or  haply,  to  that 

— Rara  avis} 

—That  has 

—"Tried  WARREN'S?" 


THE  DILLY   AND  THE  D'S,* 

[AN  APOLOGUE  OF  THE  OXFORD  INSTALLATION.] 

BY    S L    W RR N,    Q.S.,    LL.D.,    F.R.3. 

PUNCH. 

PART    FIRST. 

Oh,  Spirit !  Spirit  of  Literature, 

Alien  to  Law ! 

Oh,  Muse!  ungracious  to  thy  sterner  sister,  THEMIS, 

Whither  away  ? — Away  1 

Far  from  my  brief— 

Brief  with  a  fee  upon  it, 

Tremendous ! 

And  probably — before  my  business  is  concluded — 

A  REFRESHER — nay,  several  1  1 

Whither  whirlest  thou  thy  thrall  ? 

Thy  willing  thrall  ? 

"  Now  and  Tlien;" 

But  not  just  at  this  moment, 

If  you  please,  Spirit ! 

*  Burlesque  of  Warren's  Poem  of  "  The  Lily  and  the  Bee,"  published  at  the 
time  of  the  great  Exhibition  of  1861. 


48fl  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

No,  let  me  read  and  ponder  on 
THE  PLEADINGS. 
Declaration ! 
Plea!  ! 

Replication !  !  ! 
Rejoinder !  !  !  ! 

Surrejoinder !  !  !  !  ! 
Rebutter!  !  !  !  !  1 

Surrebutter!  !!!!!! 
ETC!  ETC!  !  ETC!  !  ! 
It  may  not  be.     The  Muse — 
As  ladies  often  are — 
Though  lovely,  is  obstinate, 
And  will  have  her  own  way  ! 

*  *  *  * 

And  am  I  not 

As  well  as  a  Q.S., 

An  RR.S. 

And  LL.D.  ? 

Ask  BLACKWOOD 

The  reason  why,  and  he  will  tell  you ; 

So  will  the  Mayor — 

The  MAYOR  OF  HULL  ! 

I  obey,  Spirit. 

Hang  my  brief — 'tis  gone  ! — 

To-morrow  let  my  junior  cram  me  in  Court. 

Whither  away  ?     Where  am  I  ? 

What  is  it  I  behold  ? 

In  space,  or  out  of  space  ?     I  know  not. 

In  fact 

I  Ve  not  the  least  idea  if  I  'm  crazy. 

Or  sprung — sprung  ? 

I  Ve  only  had  a  pint  of  Port  at  dinner 

And  can't  be  sprung — 

Oh,  no ! — Shame  on  the  thought ! 

I  see  a  coach  ! — 

Is  it  a  coach  ? 

Not  exactly. 

Yet  it  has  wheels — 

Wheels  within  wheels — and  on  the  box 

A  driver,  and  a  cad  behind, 

And  Horses — Horses  ? — 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  487 

Bethink  thee — Worm  !— 

Are  they  Horses  ?  or  that  race 

Lower  than  Horses,  but  with  longer  ears 

And  less  intelligence — 

In  fact — "  equi  asini" 

Or  in  vernacular 

JACKASSES? 

'Tis  not  a  coach  exactly — 

Now  I  see  on  the  panels — 

Pricked  out  and  flourished — 

A  word  !     A  magic  word — 

"  THE  DILLY !"— "  THE  DERBY  DILLY 1" 

Oh  Dilly  !  Dilly ! — all  thy  passengers 

Are  outsiders — 

The  road  is  rough  and  rutty —  > 

And  thy  driver,  like  NIMSHI'S  son— 

Driveth 

Furiously ! 

And  the  cad  upon  the  monkey-board 

The  monkey-board  behind, 

Scorneth  the  drag — but  goes 

Downhill  like  mad. 

He  hath  a  Caucasian  brow ! 

A  son  of  SHEM,  is  he, 

Not  of  HAM— 

Nor  JAPHETH — 

In  fact  a  Jew — 

But  see,  the  pace 

Grows  faster — and  more  fast — in  fact — 

I  may  say 

A  case  of  Furious  driving ! 

Take  care,  you  '11  be  upset — 

Look  out ! 

Holloa ! 

*  *  *  * 

Horrible!     Horrible!  I     Horrible!  !  ! 
The  Dilly— 

With  all  its  precious  freight 
Of  men  and  Manners — 
Is  gone ! 

Gone  to  immortal 
SMASH! 


488  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES. 

Pick  up  the  pieces !     Let  me  wipe  my  eyes  1 
Oh  Muse — lend  me  my  scroll 
To  do  it  with,  for  I  have  lost 
My  wipe  1 


PART    SECOND. 

*     *     *     Again  upon  the  road 
The  road  to  where? 
To  nowhere  in  particular  ! 
Ah,  no — I  thank  thee,  Muse — 
That  hint — 'tis  a  finger-post, 
And  "  he  that  runs  may  read" — 
He  that  runs  ? 
But  I  am  not  running — 
I  am  riding — 

How  came  I  here  ? — what  am  I  riding  on  ? 
Who  are  my  fellow-passengers  ? 
Ah,  ha ! 

I  recognize  them  now  ! 
The  Coach— 
The  Box — 
The  Driver — 
And  the  Cad — 

I  'm  on  the  Dilly,  and  the  Dilly 
Is  on  the  road  again 
And  now  I  see 
That  finger-post ! 
It  saith 
"  To  Oxford 
Fifty-two  miles." 
And,  hark  !  a  chorus  ! 
From  all  the  joyous  load, 
Driver  and  cad,  and  all  1 
"  We  go,"  they  sing — 
To  OXFORD  TO  BE  DOCTORED." 
To  be  Doctored  ? 
Then,  wherefore 
Are  ye  so  cheerful  ? 
I  was  not  cheerful  in  my  early  days- 
Days  of  my  buoyant  boyhood-— 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  489 

When,  after  inglutition 
Of  too  much 
Christinas  pudding, 
Or  Twelfth  cake  saccharine, 
I  went,  as  we  go  now, 
To  be  Doctored  1 
Salts! 

Senna  and  Rhubarb  !  ! 
Jalap  and  Ipecacuanha  1  !  ! 
And  Antimonial  Wine  !  !  !  ! 
"  Worm  I 
IDIOT!  ! 

DONKEY !  1  1" 
Said  the  free-spoken  Muse 
"  With  them  thou  goest  to  be  doctored,  too, 
Not  in  medicine — but  in  Law — 
All  these — and  thou — 
Are  going  to  be  made 
HONORARY 
LL.D.S ! 
Behold ! 

And  know  thy  company 
Be  thou  familiar  with  them, 
But  by  no  means  vulgar — 
For  familiarity  breeds  contempt ; 
And  no  man  is  a  hero 
To  his  valtt-de-chambre  ! 
So  ponder  and  perpend." 
DERBY! 

The  wise,  the  meek,  the  chivalrous- 
Mirror  of  knightly  graces 
And  daily  dodges ; 
Who  always  says  the  right  things 
At  the  right  time, 

And  never  forgets  himself  as  others — 
Nor  changes  his  side 
Nor  his  opinion — 
A  STANLEY  to  the  core,  as  ready 
To  fight 

As  erst  on  FLODDEN  FIELD 
His  mail-clad  ancestor. — 
See  the  poem 

21* 


490  PAKODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Of  Marmion, 
By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  I 
DIZZY! 

Dark — supple — subtle — 

With  mind  lithe  as  the  limbs 

Of  ISHMAEL'S  sons,  his  swart  progenitors — 

With  tongue  sharp  as  the  spear 

That  o'er  Sahara 

Flings  the  blue  shadow 

Of  the  crown  of  ostrich  feathers — 

As  described  so  graphically 

By  LAYARD,  in  his  recent  book 

On  Nineveh ! 

With  tongue  as  sharp 

As  aspic's  tooth  of  NILUS, 

Or  sugary 

Upon  the  occasion 

As  is  the  date 

Of  TAFILAT. 

DIZZY,  the  bounding  Arab 

Of  the  political  arena — 

As  swift  to  whirl 

Right  about  face — 

As  strong  to  leap 

From  premise  to  conclusion  - 

As  great  in  balancing 

A  budget — 

Or  flinging  headlong 

His  somersets 

Over  sharp  swords  of  adverse  facts, 

As  were  his  brethren  of  JEl-Arish, 

Who 

Some  years  ago  exhibited — 

With  rapturous  applause — 

At  Astley's  Amphitheater — 

And  subsequently 

At  Vauxhall  Gardens  !  • 

*  *  *  *  * 

Clustering,  front  and  back 
On  box  and  knife-board, 
See,  petty  man ; 
Behold  !  and  thank  thy  stars 


PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  491 

That  led  thee — Worm — 

Thee,  that  art  merely  a  writer 

And  a  barrister, 

Although  a  man  of  elegant  acquirements, 

A  gentleman  and  a  scholar — 

Nay,  F.R.S.  to  boot — 

Into  such  high  society, 

Among  such  SWELLS, 

And  REAL  NOBS ! 

Behold  I  ten  live  LORDS  !  and  lo !  no  en  1 

Of  Ex-Cabinet  Ministers ! 

Oh !  happy,  happy,  happy, 

Oh,  happy  SAM  ! 

Say,  is  n't  this  worth,  at  the  least 

"Ten,  Thousand  a  Year!" 

***** 
And  these  are  all,  to  day  at  least — 
Thy  fellows! 
Going  to  be  made 
LL.D.s,  even  as  thyself — 
And  thou  shalt  walk  in  silk  attire, 
And  hob  and  nob  with  all  the  mighty  of  the  earth  ; 
And  lunch  in  Hall — 
In  Hall ! 

Where  lunched  before. thee, 
But  on  inferior  grub, 
That  first  great  SAM- 
SAM  JOHNSON! 

And  LAUD,  and  ROGER  BACON, 
And  CRANMER,  LATIMER, 
And  RIDLEY, 

And  CYRIL  JACKSON — and  a  host  besides, 
Whom  at  my  leisure 
I  will  look  up 
In  WOOD'S 

"  Athence  Oxonienses  /" 
Only  to  think  I 
How  BLACKWOOD 
Is  honored ! 
ALISON  !  AYTOUN  !  ! 
BULWER!  !  ! 
And  last,  not  least 


492  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES, 

The  great  SAM  G-ANDERAM  !  !  !  ! 
Oh  EBONY  ! 

OhMAGAl 

And  oh 

Our  noble  selves ! 


"A    BOOK    IN    A  BUSTLE." 

A    TRUE    TALE    OF    THE    WARWICK    ASSIZES.       BY    THE    GHOST    OF 
CRABBE. 

PUNCH. 

THE  partial  power  that  to  the  female  race 
Is  charged  to  apportion  gifts  of  form  and  grace, 
With  liberal  hand  molds  beauty's  curves  in  one, 
And  to  another  gives  as  good  as  none : 
But  woman  still  for  nature  proves  a  match, 
And  grace  by  her  denied,  from  art  will  snatch. 
Hence,  great  ELIZA,  grew  thy  farthingales  ; 
Hence,  later  ANNA,  swelled  thy  hoops'  wide  pales ; 
To  this  we  must  refer  the  use  of  stays ; 
Nor  less  the  bustle  of  more  modern  days. 

Artful  device  !  whose  imitative  pad 

Into  good  figures  roundeth  off  the  bad — 

"Whether  of  simple  sawdust  thou  art  seen, 

Or  tak'st  the  guise  of  costlier  crinoline — 

How  oft  to  thee  the  female  form  doth  owe 

A  grace  rotund,  a  line  of  ampler  flow, 

Than  flesh  and  blood  thought  fit  to  clothe  it  with  below ! 

There  dwelt  in  Liverpool  a  worthy  dame, 
Who  had  a  friend — JAMES  TAYLOR  was  his  name. 
He  dealt  in  glass,  and  drove  a  thriving  trade 
And  still  saved  up  the  profits  that  he  made, 
Till  when  a  daughter  blessed  his  marriage  bed, 
The  father  in  the  savings-bank  was  led 
In  his  child's  name  a  small  sum  to  invest, 
From  which  he  drew  the  legal  interest 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  493 

Years  went  and  came  ;  JAMES  TAYLOR  came  and  went ; 
Paid  in,  and  drew,  his  modest  three  per  cent., 
Till,  by  the  time  his  child  reach' d  girlhood's  bounds, 
The  sum  had  ris'n  to  two-and-twenty  pounds. 

Our  cautious  legislature — well  'tis  known — 
Round  savings-banks  a  guardian  fence  has  thrown : 
'Tis  easy  to  pay  into  them,  no  doubt, 
Though  any  thing  but  easy  to  draw  out. 
And  so  JAMES  TAYLOR  found ;  for  on  a  day 
He  wanted  twenty  pounds  a  bill  to  pay, 
And,  short  of  cash,  unto  the  bank  applied ; 
Failing  some  form  of  law,  he  was  denied ! 

JAMES  TAYLOR  humm'd  and  haw'd — look'd  blank  and  blue  ; — 
In  short,  JAMES  TAYLOR  knew  not  what  to  do : 
His  creditor  was  stem — the  bill  was  over  due. 

As  to  a  friend  he  did  his  plight  deplore — 

The  worthy  dame  of  whom  I  spoke  before — 

(It  might  cause  pain  to  give  the  name  she  owns, 

So  let  me  use  the  pseudonym  of  JONES)  ; 

"  TAYLOR,"  said  MRS.  JONES,  "  as  I  'in  a  friend, 

I  do  not  care  if  I  the  money  lend. 

But  even  friends  security  should  hold  : 

Give  me  security — I  '11  lend  the  gold." 

"  This  savings-bank  deposit-book  !"  he  cries. 

"  See — in  my  daughter's  name  the  sum  that  lies!" 

She  saw — and,  satisfied,  the  money  lent ; 

Wherewith  JAMES  TAYLOR  went  away  content. 

But  now  what  cares  seize  MRS.  JONES'S  breast  1 
What  terrors  throng  her  once  unbroken  rest  1 
Cash  she  could  keep,  in  many  a  secret  nook — 
But  where  to  stow  away  JAMES  TAYLOR'S  book  ? 
Money  is  heavy :  where  'tis  put 't  will  stay  ; 
Paper — as  WILLIAM  COBBETT  used  to  say — 
Will  make  wings  to  itself,  and  fly  away  ! 

Long  she  devised  :  new  plans  the  old  ones  chase, 
Until  at  last  she  hit  upon  a  place. 
Was  't  VENUS  that  the  strange  concealment  planned. 
Or  rather  PLTJTUS'S  irreverent  hand  ? 


494  PARODIES     AND    BUELESQUES. 

Good  MRS.  JONES  was  of  a  scraggy  make  ; 

But  when  did  woman  vanity  forsake  ? 

What  nature  sternly  to  her  form  denied, 

A  Bustle's  ample  aid  had  well  supplied, 

Within  whose  vasty  depths  the  book  might  safely  hide  1 

'T  was  thought — 't  was  done  !  by  help  of  ready  phi, 
The  sawdust  was  let  out,  the  book  put  in. 
Henceforth — at  home — abroad — where'er  she  moved, 
Behind  her  lurk'd  the  volume  that  she  loved. 
She  laughed  to  scorn  the  cut-purse  and  his  sleight : 
No  fear  of  burglars  scared  her  through  the  night ; 

But  ah,  what  shrine  is  safe  from  greed  of  gold. 

What  fort  against  cupidity  can  hold? 

Can  stoutest  buckram's  triple  fold  keep  in, 

The  odor  lucri — the  strong  scent  of  tin  ? 

For  which  CIIUBB'S  locks  are  weak,  and  MILKER'S  safes  are  thin. 

Some  time  elapsed — the  time  required(by  law, 
Which  past,  JAMES  TAYLOR  might  the  money  draw, 
His  kind  but  cautious  creditor  to  pay, 
So  to  the  savings-bank  they  took  their  way. 
There  MRS.  JONES  with  modesty  withdrew — 
To  do  what  no  rude  eye  might  see  her  do — 
And  soon  returning — with  a  blushing  look, 
Unmarked  by  TAYLOR,  she  produced  the  book. 
Which  he,  presenting,  did  the  sum  demand 
Of  MR.  TOMEJNS,  the  cashier  so  bland. 

What  can  there  be  upon  the  red-lined  page 

That  TOMKINS'S  quick  eye  should  so  engage  ? 

What  means  his  invitation  to  J.  T., 

To  "  Walk  in  for  a  moment"—"  he  would  see"— 

"  Only  a  moment" — "  't  was  all  right,  no  doubt," 

"  It  could  not  be" — "  and  yet" — here  he  slipped  out, 

Leaving  JAMES  TAYLOR  grievously  perplexed, 

And  MRS.  JONES  by  his  behavior  vexed. 

"  What  means  the  man  by  treating  people  so  ?" 

Said  TAYLOR,  "  I  am  a  loss  to  know." 

Too  soon,  alas,  the  secret  cause  they  knew  ! 
TOMKINS  return'd,  and,  with  him,  one  in  blue — 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  495 

POLICEMAN  X,  a  stern  man  and  a  strong, 
Who  told  JAMES  TAYLOR  he  must  "  come  along" — 
And  TOMKINS,  seeing  MRS.  JONES  aghast, 
Eevealed  the  book  was  forged — from  first  to  last ! 

Who  can  describe  the  wrath  of  MRS.  JONES? 

The  chill  of  fear  that  crept  through  TAYLOR'S  bones  ? 

The  van — the  hand-cuffs — and  the  prison  cell 

Where  pined  JAMES  TAYLOR — wherefore  pause  to  tell  ? 

Soon  came  the  Assizes — and  the  legal  train ; 

In  form  the  clerk  JAMES  TAYLOR  did  arraign  ; 

And  though  his  council  mustered  tears  at  will, 

And  made  black  white  with  true  Old  Bailey  skill, 

TAYLOR,  though  MRS.  JONES  for  mercy  sued, 

Was  doomed  to  five  years'  penal  servitude ; 

And  in  a  yellow  suit  turned  up  with  gray, 

To  Portland  prison  was  conveyed  away  I 

Time  passed :  forgot  JAMES  TAYLOR  and  his  shame — 
When  lo — one  day  unto  the  bank  there  came 
A  new  JAMES  TAYLOR — a  new  MRS.  JONES — 
And  a  new  book,  which  TOMKINS  genuine  owns ! 
"  Two  TAYLORS  and  two  JONESES  and  two  books" — 
Thought  wary  TOMKINS,  "  this  suspicious  looks — 
"  The  former  TAYLOR,  former  JONES  I  knew — 
These  are  imposters — yet  the  book  is  true  !" 
When  like  a  flash  upon  his  mind  it  burst — 
Who  brought  the  second  book  had  forged  the  first ! 

Again  was  summon'd  X,  the  stern,  the  strong— 
Again  that  pair  were  bid  to  "  Come  along !" 
The  truth  before  the  justices  appear'd, 
And  wrong'd  JAMES  TAYLOR'S  character  was  clear'd. 

In  evil  hour — by  what  chance  ne'er  was  known, 

Whether  the  bustle's  seam  had  come  unsewn, 

Or  MRS.  JONES  by  chance  had  laid  aside 

The  artificial  charms  that  decked  her  side — 

But  so  it  was,  how  or  whene'er  assailed — 

The  treacherous  hiding-place  was  tried — and  failed ! 

The  book  was  ta'en — a  forged  one  fill'd  its  place ; — 

And  MRS.  JONES  was  robb'd — not  to  her  face — 

And  poor  JAMES  TAYLOR  doom'd  to  trial  and  disgrace  ! 


496  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Who  shall  describe  her  anguish — her  remorse  ? 
JAMES  TAYLOR  was  at  once  released,  of  course ; 
And  MRS.  JONES,  repentant  inly  swore 
Henceforth  to  carry,  what  she'd  keep,  before. 

My  tale  is  told — and,  what  is  more,  'tis  true  : 
I  read  it  in  the  papers — so  may  you. 
And  this  its  moral :  MRS.  JONESES  all — 
Though  reticules  may  drop,  and  purses  fall, 
Though  thieves  may  unprotected  females  hustle, 
Never  invest  your  money  in  a  bustle? 


STANZAS    FOR    THE    SENTIMENTAL. 

PUNCH. 
I. 

ON    A    TEAR    WHICH   ANGELINA    OBSERVED    TRICKLING    DOWN    MY 
NOSE    AT    DINNER    TIME. 

NAY,  fond  one !  I  will  ne'er  reveal 
Whence  flowed  that  sudden  tear  : 

The  truth  't  were  kindness  to  conceal 
From  thy  too  anxious  ear. 

How  often  when  some  hidden  spring 

Of  recollected  grief 
Is  rudely  touched,  a  tear  will  bring 

The  bursting  breast  relief! 

Yet 't  was  no  anguish  of  the  soul, 

No  memory  of  woes, 
Bade  that  one  lonely  tearlet  roll 

Adown  my  chiseled  nose  : 

But,  ah !  interrogation's  note 

Still  twinkles  in  thine  eye  ; 
Know  then  that  I  have  burnt  my  throat 

With  this  confounded  pie  1 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  40.7 

II. 
ON   MY    REFUSING    ANGELINA    A    KISS   UNDER    THE    MISLETOE 

Nay,  fond  one,  shun  that  misletoe, 

Nor  lure  me  'neath  its  fatal  bough : 
Some  other  night 't  were  joy  to  go, 

But  ah !  I  must  not,  dare  not  now ! 
'Tis  sad,  I  own,  to  see  thy  face 

Thus  tempt  me  with  its  giggling  glee, 
And  feel  I  can  not  now  embrace 

The  opportunity — and  thee. 

'Tis  sad  to  think  that  jealousy's 

Sharp  scissors  may  our  true  love  sever ; 
And  that  my  coldness  now  may  freeze 

Thy  warm  affection,  love,  forever. 
But  ah  !  to  disappoint  our  bliss, 

A  fatal  hind'rance  now  is  stuck : 
'Tis  not  that  I  am  loath  to  kiss, 

But,  dearest,  list — /  dined  off  duck! 


III. 

ON    MY    FINDING    ANGELINA   STOP  SUDDENLY   IN    A  RAPID    AFTER-SUP 
PER    POLKA   AT    MRS.    TOMPKINS'S    BALL. 

Edwin.     u  Maiden,  why  that  look  of  sadness  ? 

Whence  that  dark  o'erclouded  brow  ? 
What  hath  stilled  thy  bounding  gladness, 

Changed  thy  pace  from  fast  to  slow  ? 
Is  it  that  by  impulse  sudden 

Childhood's  hours  thou  paus'st  to  mourn  ? 
Or  hath  thy  cruel  EDWIN  trodden 

Right  upon  thy  favorite  corn  ? 

"  Is  it  that  for  evenings  wasted 

Some  remorse  thou  'gin'st  to  feel  ? 
Or  hath  that  sham  champagne  we  tasted 

Turned  thy  polka  to  a  reel  ? 
Still  that  gloom  upon  each  feature  ? 

Still  that  sad  reproachful  frown  ?" 
Angelina.     "  Can't  you  see,  you  clumsy  creature, 

All  my  back  hair's  coming  down  1" 


498  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

COLLOQUY    ON    A    CAB-STAND. 

ADAPTED  FOR  THE  BOUDOIR. 

PUNCH. 

"  OH  !  WILLIAM/'  JAMES  was  heard  to  say — 
JAMES  drove  a  hackney  cabriolet : 
WILLIAM,  the  horses  of  his  friend, 
With  hay  and  water  used  to  tend. 

"  Now,  tell  me,  WILLIAM,  can  it  be, 
That  MAYNE  has  issued  a  decree, 
Severe  and  stern,  against  us,  planned 
Of  comfort  to  deprive  our  Stand  ?" 

"  I  fear  the  tale  is  all  too  true," 
Said  WILLIAM,  "  on  my  word  I  do." 
"  Are  we  restricted  to  the  Row 
And  from  the  footpath  ?"     "  Even  so." 

"  Must  our  companions  be  resigned, 
We  to  the  Rank  alone  confined  ?" 
"  Yes ;  or  they  apprehend  the  lads 
Denominated  Bucks  and  Cads." 

"  Dear  me  1"  cried  JAMES,  "  how  very  hard ! 
And  are  we,  too,  from  beer  debarred  ?" 
Said  WILLIAM,  "  While  remaining  here 
.We  also  are  forbidden  beer." 

"  Nor  may  we  breathe  the  fragrant  weed  ?" 
"  That 's  interdicted  too."     "  Indeed  !" 
"  Nor  in  the  purifying  wave 
Must  we  our  steeds  or  chariots  lave." 

"  For  private  drivers,  at  request, 
It  is  SIR  RICHARD  MAYNE'S  behest 
That  we  shall  move,  I  understand  ?" 
"  Such,  I  believe,  is  the  command." 

"  Of  all  remains  of  food  and  drink 
Left  by  our  animals,  I  think. 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  499 

We  are  required  to  clear  the  ground  ?"' 
"  Yes :  to  remove  them  we  are  bound." 

"  These  mandates  should  we  disobey — " 
"  They  take  our  h'censes  away." 
"  That  were  unkind.     How  harsh  our  lot  1" 
"  It  is  indeed."     "  Now  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Thus  strictly  why  are  we  pursued  ?" 
"  It  is  alleged  that  we  are  rude ; 
The  people  opposite  complain, 
Our  lips  that  coarse  expressions  stain." 

"  Law,  how  absurd !"  "  And  then,  they  say 
We  smoke  and  tipple  all  the  day, 
Are  oft  in  an  excited  state, 
Disturbance,  noise,  and  dirt  create." 

"  What  shocking  stories  people  tell ! 
I  never !     Did  you  ever  ? — Well — 
Bless  them!"  the  Cabman  mildly  sighed. 
"  May  they  be  blest!"  his  Friend  replied. 


THE    SONG    OF    HIAWATHA. 

AN   ENGLISH   CRITICISM. 

PUNCH. 

You,  who  hold  in  grace  and  honor, 
Hold,  as  one  who  did  you  kindness 
When  he  published  former  poems, 
Sang  Evangeline  the  noble, 
Sang  the  golden  Golden  Legend, 
Sang  the  songs  the  Voices  utter 
Crying  in  the  night  and  darkness, 
Sang  how  unto  the  Red  Planet 
Mars  he  gave  the  Night's  First  Watches, 
Henry  Wadsworth,  whose  adnomen 
(Coming  awkward,  for  the  accents, 


500  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES, 

Into  this  his  latest  rhythm) 
Write  we  as  Protracted  Fellow, 
Or  in  Latin,  Long  us  Comes — 
Buy  the  Song  of  Hiawatha. 


Should  you  ask  me,  Is  the  poem 
Worthy  of  its  predecessors, 
Worthy  of  the  sweet  conception, 
Of  the  manly  nervous  diction, 
Of  the  phrase,  concise  or  pliant, 
Of  the  songs  that  sped  the  pulses, 
Of  the  songs  that  gemm'd  the  eyelash, 
Of  the  other  works  of  Henry  ? 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
You  may  wish  that  you  may  get  it — 
Don't  you  wish  that  you  may  get  it  ? 

Should  you  ask  me,  Is  it  worthless, 
Is  it  bosh  and  is  it  bunkum, 
Merely  facile  flowing  nonsense, 
Easy  to  a  practiced  rhythmist, 
Fit  to  charm  a  private  circle, 
But  not  worth  the  print  and  paper 
David  Bogue  hath  here  expended  ? 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
You  're  a  fool  and  most  presumptuous. 
Hath  not  Henry  Wadsworth  writ  it  ? 
Hath  not  Punch  commanded  "Buy  it?" 

Should  you  ask  me,  What 's  its  nature  ? 
Ask  me,  What 's  the  kind  of  poem  ? 
Ask  me  in  respectful  language, 
Touching  your  respectful  beaver, 
Kicking  back  your  manly  hind-leg, 
Like  to  one  who  sees  his  betters ; 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
'Tis  a  poem  in  this  meter, 
And  embalming  the  traditions, 
Fables,  rites,  and  superstitions, 
Legends,  charms,  and  ceremonials 
Of  the  various  tribes  of  Indians, 


PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES.  501 

From  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 

From  the  mountains,  moors,  and  fenlands, 

Where  the  heron,  the  Shuh-shuh-gah, 

Finds  its  sugar  in  the  rushes : 

From  the  fast-decaying  nations, 

Which  our  gentle  Uncle  Samuel 

Is  improving,  very  smartly, 

From  the  face  of  all  creation, 

Off  the  face  of  all  creation. 

Should  you  ask  me,  By  what  story, 
By  what  action,  plot,  or  fiction, 
All  these  matters  are  connected  ? 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
Go  to  Bogue  and  buy  the  poem, 
Publish'd  neatly,  at  one  shilling, 
Publish'd  sweetly,  at  five  shillings. 
Should  you  ask  me,  Is  there  music 
In  the  structure  of  the  verses, 
In  the  names  and  in  the  phrases  ? 
Pleading  that,  like  weaver  Bottom, 
You  prefer  your  ears  well  tickled ; 
I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 
Henry's  verse  is  very  charming ; 
And  for  names — there  's  Hiawatha, 
Who 's  the  hero  of  the  poem  ; 
Mudjeekeewis,  that's  the  West  Wind, 
Hiawatha's  graceless  father ; 
There 's  Nokomis,  there 's  Wenonah — 
Ladies  both,  of  various  merit ; 
Puggawangum,  that 's  a  war-club  ; 
Pau-puk-keewis,  he 's  a  dandy, 
"  Barr'd  with  streaks  of  red  and  yellow; 
And  the  women  and  the  maidens 
Love  the  handsome  Pau-puk-keewis," 
Tracing  in  him  Punch's  likeness. 
Then  there 's  lovely  Minnehaha — 
Pretty  name  with  pretty  meaning — 
It  implies  the  Laughing- water  ; 
And  the  darling  Minnehaha 
Married  noble  Hiawatha ; 


502  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES, 

And  her  story 's  far  too  touching 
To  be  sport  for  you,  you  donkey, 
With  your  ears  like  weaver  Bottom's, 
Ears  like  booby  Bully  Bottom. 

Once  upon  a  time  in  London, 

In  the  days  of  the  Lyceum, 

Ages  ere  keen  Arnold  let  it 

To  the  dreadful  Northern  Wizard, 

Ages  ere  the  buoyant  Mathews 

Tripp'd  upon  its  boards  in  briskness — 

I  remember,  I  remember 

How  a  scribe,  with  pen  chivalrous, 

Tried  to  save  these  Indian  stories 

From  the  fate  of  chill  oblivion. 

Out  came  sundry  comic  Indians 

Of  the  tribe  of  Kut-an-hack-um. 

With  then-  Chief,  the  clean  Efmatthews, 

With  the  growling  Downy  Beaver, 

With  the  valiant  Monkey's  Uncle, 

Came  the  gracious  Mari-Kee-lee, 

Firing  off  a  pocket-pistol, 

Singing,  too,  that  Mudjee-keewis 

(Shorten'd  in  the  song  to  "Wild  Win  I,") 

Was  a  spirit  very  kindly. 

Came  her  Sire,  the  joyous  Kee-lee, 

By  the  waning  tribe  adopted, 

Named  the  Buffalo,  and  wedded 

To  the  fairest  of  the  maidens, 

But  repented  of  his  bargain, 

And  his  brother  Kut-an-hack-ums 

Very  nearly  chopp'd  his  toes  off — 

Serve  him  right,  the  fickle  Kee-lee. 

If  you  ask  me,  What  this  memory 

Hath  to  do  with  Hiawatha, 

And  the  poem  which  I  speak  of? 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 

You  're  a  fool,  and  most  presumptuous ; 

'Tis  not  for  such  humble  cattle 

To  inquire  what  links  and  unions 

Join  the  thoughts,  and  mystic  meanings, 

Of  their  betters,  mighty  poets, 


PAKODIES    AND    BURLESQUES.  503 

Mighty  writers — Punch  the  mightiest; 

I  should  answer,  I  should  tell  you, 

Shut  your  mouth,  and  go  to  David, 

David,  Mr.  Punch's  neighbor, 

Buy  the  Song  of  Hiawatha, 

Read,  and  learn,  and  then  be  thankful 

Unto  Punch  and  Henry  Wadsworth, 

Punch  and  noble  Henry  Wadsworth, 

Truer  poet,  better  fellow, 

Than  to  be  annoyed  at  jesting, 

From  his  friend,  great  Punch,  who  loves  him. 


COMFORT    IN    AFFLICTION. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

"  WHEREFORE  starts  my  bosom's  lord  ? 

Why  this  anguish  in  thine  eye  ? 
Oh,  it  seems  as  thy  heart's  chord 

Had  broken  with  that  sigh  ! 

"  Rest  thee,  my  dear  lord,  I  pray, 

Rest  thee  on  my  bosom  now  ! 
And  let  me  wipe  the  dews  away, 

Are  gathering  on  thy  brow. 

"  There,  again  !  that  fevered  start ! 

What,  love!  husband!  is  thy  pain? 
There  is  a  sorrow  in  thy  heart, 

A  weight  upon  thy  brain  ! 

"  Nay,  nay,  that  sickly  smile  can  ne'er 

Deceive  affection's  searching  eye  ; 
'Tis  a  wife's  duty,  love,  to  share 

Her  husband's  agony. 

"  Since  the  dawn  began  to  peep, 

Have  I  lain  with  stifled  breath  ; 
Heard  thee  moaning  in  thy  sleep, 

As  thou  wert  at  grips  with  death. 


504  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES, 

"  Oh,  what  joy  it  was  to  see 

My  gentle  lord  once  more  awake  1 

Tell  me,  what  is  amiss  with  thee  ? 
Speak,  or  my  heart  will  break !'! 

"  Mary,  thou  angel  of  my  life, 
Thou  ever  good  and  kind ; 

'Tis  not,  believe  me,  my  dear  wife, 
The  anguish  of  the  mind ! 

"  It  is  not  in  my  bosom,  dear, 
No,  nor  my  brain,  in  sooth  ; 

But  Mary,  oh,  I  feel  it  here, 
Here  in  my  wisdom  tooth ! 

"  Then  give, — oh,  first,  best  antidote, — 
Sweet  partner  of  my  bed ! 

Give  me  thy  flannel  petticoat 
To  wrap  around  my  head  I" 


THE    HUSBAND'S    PETITION. 

WILMAM    AYTOUN. 

COME  hither,  my  heart's  darling, 

Come,  sit  upon  my  knee, 
And  listen,  while  I  whisper, 

A  boon  I  ask  of  thee. 
You  need  not  pull  my  whiskers 

So  amorously,  my  dove ; 
'Tis  something  quite  apart  from 

The  gentle  cares  of  love. 

I  feel  a  bitter  craving — 

A  dark  and  deep  desire, 
That  glows  beneath  my  bosom 

Like  coals  of  kindled  fire. 
The  passion  of  the  nightingale, 

When  singing  to  the  rose, 
Is  feebler  than  the  agony 

That  murders  my  repose  I 


PARODIES   A;ND   BURLESQUES.  505 

Nay,  dearest !  do  not  doubt  me, 

Though  madly  thus  I  speak — 
I  feel  thy  arms  about  me, 

Thy  tresses  on  my  cheek  : 
I  know  the  sweet  devotion 

That  links  thy  heart  with  mine — 
I  know  my  soul's  emotion 

Is  doubly  felt  by  thine  : 

And  deem  not  that  a  shadow 

Hath  fallen  across  my  love : 
No,  sweet,  my  love  is  shadowless, 

As  yonder  heaven  above. 
These  little  taper  fingers — 

Ah !  Jane,  how  white  they  be ! — 
Can  well  supply  the  cruel  want 

That  almost  maddens  me. 


Thou  wilt  not  sure  deny  me 

My  first  and  fond  request ; 
I  pray  thee,  by  the  memory 

Of  all  we  cherish  best — 
By  all  the  dear  remembrance 

Of  those  delicicious  days, 
When,  hand  in  hand,  we  wandered 

Along  the  summer  braes : 

By  all  we  felt,  unspoken, 

When  'neath  the  early  moon, 
We  sat  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June ; 
And  by  the  broken  whisper, 

That  fell  upon  my  ear, 
More  sweet  than  angel-music, 

When  first  I  woo'd  thee,  dear ! 

By  that  great  vow  which  bound  thee 

Forever  to  my  side, 
And  by  the  ring  that  made  thee 

My  darling  and  my  bride ! 
22 


006  PAKODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  nor  falter, 
But  bend  thee  to  the  task — 

A  BOILED  SHEEP'S  HEAD  ON  SUNDAY 
Is  all  the  boon  I  ask. 


THE    BITER    BIT. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

THE  sun  is  in  the  sky,  mother,  the  flowers  arc  springing  fair, 
And  the  melody  of  woodland  birds  is  stirring  in  the  air ; 
The  river,  smiling  to  the  sky,  glides  onward  to  the  sea, 
And  happiness  is  everywhere,  oh,  mother,  but  with  me ! 

They  are  going  to  the  church,  mother — I  hear  the  marriage  bell ; 
It  booms  along  the  upland — oh !  it  haunts  me  like  a  knell ; 
He  leads  her  on  liis  arm,  mother,  he  cheers  her  faltering  step, 
And  closely  to  his  side  she  clings — she  does,  the  demirep  ! 

They  are  crossing  by  the  stile,  mother,  where  we  so  oft  have  stood, 
The  stile  beside  the  shady  thorn,  at  the  corner  of  the  wood ; 
And  the  boughs,  that  wont  to  murmur  back  the  words  that  won 

my  ear, 
Wave  their  silver  branches  o'er  him,  as  he  leads  his  bridal  fere. 

He  will  pass  beside  the  stream,  mother,  where  first  my  hand  he 

pressed, 
By   the   meadow   where,   with   quivering  lip,    his    passion   he 

confessed ; 
And  down  the  hedgerows  where  we  've  strayed  again  and  yet 

again  ; 
But  he  will  not  think  of  me,  mother,  his  broken-hearted  Jane ! 

He  said  that  I  was  proud,  mother,  that  I  looked  for  rank  and  gold, 
He  said  I  did  not  love  him — he  said  my  words  were  cold ; 
He  said  I  kept  him  off  and  on,  in  hopes  of  higher  game — 
And  it  may  be  that  I  did,  mother ;  but  who  has  n't  done  the  same? 

I  did  not  know  my  heart,  mother — I  know  it  now  too  late ; 
I  thought  that  I  without  a  pang  could  wed  some  nobler  mate ; 
But  no  nobler  suitor  sought  me — and  he  has  taken  wing, 
And  my  heart  is  gone,  and  I  am  left  a  lone  and  blighted  thing. 


PARODIES     AXD    BURLESQUES.  507 

You  may  lay  me  in  my  bed,  mother — my  head  is  throbbing  sore ; 

And,  mother,  prithee,  let  the  sheets  be  duly  aired  before  ; 

And,  if  you  'd  please,  my  mother  dear,  your  poor  desponding 

child, 
Draw  me  a  pot  of  beer,  mother,  and,  mother,  draw  it  mild  ! 


A    MIDNIGHT    MEDITATION. 

BY    SIR   E B L . 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

FILL  me  once  more  the  foaming  pewter  up  ! 

Another  board  of  oysters,  ladye  mine  ! 
To-night  Lucullus  with  himself  shall  sup. 

These  mute  inglorious  Miltons  are  divine  ; 

And  as  I  here  in  slippered  ease  recline, 
Quaffing  of  Perkins'  Entire  my  fill, 
I  sigh  not  for  (he  lymph  of  Aganippe's  rill. 

A  nobler  inspiration  fires  my  brain, 

Caught  from  Old  England's  fine  time-hallowed  drink  ; 
I  snatch  the  pot  again  and  yet  again, 

And  as  the  foaming  fluids  shrink  and  shrink, 

Fill  me  once  more,  I  say,  up  to  the  brink ! 
This  makes  strong  hearts — strong  heads  attest  its  charm — 
This  nerves  the  might  that  sleeps  in  Britain's  brawny  arm ! 

But  these  remarks  are  neither  here  nor  there. 

Where  was  I  ?     Oh,  I  see — old  Southey  's  dead ! 
They  '11  want  some  bard  to  fill  the  vacant  chair, 

And  drain  the  annual  butt — and  oh,  what  head 

More  fit  with  laurel  to  be  garlanded 
Than  this,  which,  curled  in  many  a  fragrant  coil, 
Breathes  of  Custalia's  streams,  and  best  Macassar  oil  ? 

I  know  a  grace  is  seated  on  my  brow, 

Like  young  Apollo's  with  his  golden  beams  ; 

There  should  Apollo's  bays  be  budding  now  : 
And  in  my  flashing  eyes  the  radiance  beams 
That  marks  the  poet  in  his  waking  dreoms, 


508  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

When  as  his  fancies  cluster  thick  and  thicker, 
He  feels  the  trance  divine  of  poesy  and  liquor. 

They  throng  around  me  now,  those  things  of  air, 
That  from  my  fancy  took  their  being's  stamp  : 

There  Pelham  sits  and  twirls  his  glossy  hair, 
There  Clifford  leads  his  pals  upon  the  tramp  ; 
Their  pale  Zanoni,  bending  o'er  his  lamp, 

Roams  through  the  starry  wilderness  of  thought. 

Where  all  is  every  thing,  and  every  thing  is  naught. 

Yes,  I  am  he,  who  sung  how  Aram  won 

The  gentle  ear  of  pensive  Madeline  ! 
How  love  and  murder  hand  in  hand  may  run, 

Cemented  by  philosophy  serene, 

And  kisses  bless  the  spot  where  gore  has  been  ! 
Who  breathed  the  melting  sentiment  of  crime, 

And  for  the  assassin  waked  a  sympathy  sublime  ! 

Yes,  I  am  he,  who  on  the  novel  shed 
Obscure  philosophy's  enchanting  light  ! 

Until  the  public,  wildered  as  they  read, 

Believed  they  saw  that  which  was  not  in  sight  — 
Of  course  't  was  not  for  me  to  set  them  right  ; 

For  in  my  nether  heart  convinced  I  am, 

Philosophy  's  as  good  as  any  other  bam. 

Novels  three-  volumed  I  shall  write  no  more  — 
Somehow  or  other  now  they  will  not  sell  ; 

And  to  invent  new  passions  is  a  bore  — 
I  find  the  Magazines  pay  quite  as  well. 
Translating  's  simple,  too,  as  I  can  tell, 

Who  've  hawked  at  Schiller  on  his  lyric  throne, 

And  given  the  astonished  bard  a  meaning  all  my  own. 


Moore,  Campbell,  Wordsworth,  their  best  days  are 
Battered  and  broken  are  their  early  lyres. 

Rogers,  a  pleasant  memory  of  the  past, 

Warmed  his  young  hands  at  Smithfield'a  martyr  fires, 
And,  worth  a  plum,  nor  bays,  nor  butt  desires. 

But  these  are  things  would  suit  me  to  the  letter, 

For  though  this  Stout  is  good,  old  Sherry's  greatly  better. 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  509 

A  fico  for  your  small  poetic  ravers, 

Your  Hunts,  your  Tennysons,  your  Milnes,  and  these  1 
Shall  they  compete  with  him  who  wrote  "  Maltravers," 

Prologue  to  "  Alice  or  the  Mysteries  ?" 

No !  Even  now,  my  glance  prophetic  sees 
My  own  high  brow  girt  with  the  bays  about 
What  ho,  within  there,  ho  !  another  pint  of  STOUT  1 


THE    DIRGE    OF    THE    DRINKER. 

BY    W E A ,    ESQ. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

BROTHERS,  spare  awhile  your  liquor,  lay  your  final  tumbler  down ; 
He  has  dropp'd — that  star  of  honor — on  the  field  of  his  renown  ! 
Raise  the  wail,  but  raise  it  softly,  lowly  bending  on  your  knees, 
If  you  find  it  more  convenient,  you  may  hiccup  if  you  please. 
Sons  of  Pantagruel,  gently  let  your  hip-hurraing  sink, 
Be  your  manly  accents  clouded,  half  with  sorrow,  half  with 

drink ! 

Lightly  to  the  sofa  pillow  lift  his  head  from  off  the  floor  ; 
See,  how  calm  he  sleeps,  unconscious  as  the  deadest  nail  in  door ! 
Widely  o'er  the  earth  I  've  wander'd ;  where  the  drink  most 

freely  flow'd, 

I  Have  ever  reel'd  the  foremost,  foremost  to  the  beaker  strode. 
Deep  in  shady  Cider  Cellars  I  have  dream' d  o'er  heavy  wet, 
By  the  fountains  of  Damascus  I  have  quaff 'd  the  rich  Sherbet, 
Regal  Montepulciano  drained  beneath  its  native  rock, 
On  Johannis'  sunny  mountain  frequent  hiccup'd  o'er  my  hock ; 
I  have  bathed  in  butts  of  Xeres  deeper  than  did  e'er  Monsoon, 
Sangaree'd  with  bearded  Tartars  in  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  ; 
In  beer-swilling  Copenhagen  I  have  drunk  your  Danesman  blind, 
I  have  kept  my  feet  in  Jena,  when  each  bursch  to  earth  de 
clined  ; 

Glass  for  glass,  in  fierce  Jamaica,  I  have  shared  the  planter's  rum, 
Drank  with  Highland  dhuinie-wassels,  till  each  gibbering  Gael 

grew  dumb; 

But  a  stouter,  bolder  drinker— one  that  loved  his  liquor  more — 
Never  yet  did  I  encounter  than  our  friend  upon  the  floor ! 


510  PARODIES    AND    BURLESQUES. 

Yet  the  best  of  us  are  mortal,  we  to  weakness  all  are  heir, 
He  has  fallen,  who  rarely  stagger' d — let  the  rest  of  us  beware  I 
We  shall  leave  him,  as  we  found  him — lying  where  his  manhood 

fell, 

'Mong  the  trophies  of  the  revel,  for  he  took  his  tipple  well. 
Better  't  were  we  loosed  his  neckcloth,  laid  his  throat  and  bosom 

bare, 

Pulled  his  Hobies  off,  and  turn'd  his  toes  to  taste  the  breezy  air. 
Throw  the  sofa  cover  o'er  him,  dim  the  flaring  of  the  gas, 
Calmly,  calmly  let  him  slumber,  and,  as  by  the  bar  we  pass, 
We  shall  bid  that  thoughtful  waiter  place  beside  him,  near  and 

handy, 
Large   supplies  of  soda  water,  tumblers  bottomed  well  with 

brandy, 
So  when  waking,  he  shall  drain  them,  with  that  deathless  thirst 

of  his, 
Clinging  to  the  hand  that  smote  him,  like  a  good  'un  as  he  is ! 


FRANCESCA    DA    RIMINI. 

TO    BON    GAULTIER. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

AEGTJMF.NT. — An  impassioned  pupil  of  Leigh  Hunt,  having  met  Bon  Gaultier  at 
a  Faucy  Ball,  declares  the  destructive  consequences  thus : 

DIDST  thou  not  praise  me,  Gaultier,  at  the  ball, 
Ripe  lips,  trim  boddice,  and  a  waist  so  small, 
With  clipsome  lightness,  dwindling  ever  less, 
Beneath  the  robe  of  pea-y  greeniness ! 
Dost  thou  remember,  when  with  stately  prance, 
Our  heads  went  crosswise  in  the  country  dance ; 
How  soft,  warm  fingers,  tipp'd  like  buds  of  balm, 
Trembled  within  the  squeezing  of  thy  palm ; 
And  how  a  cheek  grew  flush'd  and  peachy-wise 
At  the  frank  lifting  of  thy  cordial  eyes  ? 
Ah,  me  !  that  night  there  was  one  gentle  thing, 
Who  like  a  dove,  with  its  scarce-feather' d  wing, 
Flutter'd  at  the  approach  of  thy  quaint  swaggering ! 
There 's  wont  to  be,  at  conscious  times  like  these, 
An  affectation  of  a  bright-eyed  ease — 


PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES.  511 

A  crispy-cheekiness,  if  so  I  dare 
Describe  the  swaling  of  a  jaunty  air ; 
And  thus,  when  swirling  from  the  waltz's  wheel, 
You  craved  my  hand  to  grace  the  next  quadrille. 
That  smiling  voice,  although  it  made  me  start, 
Boil'd  in  the  meek  o'erlifting  of  my  heart ; 
And,  picking  at  my  flowers,  I  said  with  free 
And  usual  tone,  "  Oh  yes,  sir,  certainly !" 

Like  one  that  swoons,  'twixt  sweet  amaze  and  fear, 

I  heard  the  music  burning  in  my  ear, 

And  felt  I  cared  not,  so  thou  wert  with  me, 

If  Grurlh  or  Wainba  were  our  vis-a-vis. 

So,  when  u  tall  Knight  Templar  ringing  came, 

And  took  his  place  against  us  with  his  dame, 

I  neither  turned  away,  nor  bashful  shrunk 

From  the  stern  survey  of  the  soldier-monk, 

Though  rather  more  than  full  three-quarters  drunk ; 

But  threading  through  the  figure,  first  in  rule, 

I  paused  to  se<>  Lhoe  plunge  into  La  Poule. 

Ah,  what  u  sight  was  that?     Not  prurient  Mars, 

Pointing  his  toe  through  ten  celestial  bars — 

Not  young  Apollo,  beamily  array 'd 

In  tripsoine  guise  for  Juno's  masquerade — 

Not  smartest  Hermes,  with  his  pinion  girth, 

Jerking  with  freaks  and  snatches  down  to  earth, 

Look'd  half  so  bold,  so  beautiful  and  strong, 

As  thou  when  pranking  thro'  the  glittering  throng ! 

How  the  calm'd  ladies  looked  with  eyes  of  love 

On  thy  trim  velvet  doublet  laced  above ; 

The  hem  of  gold,  that,  like  a  wavy  river, 

Flowed  down  into  thy  back  with  glancing  shiver ! 

So  bare  was  thy  fine  throat,  and  curls  of  black 

So  lightsomely  dropp'd  on  thy  lordly  back. 

So  crisply  swaled  the  feather  in  thy  bonnet, 

So  glanced  thy  thigh,  and  spanning  palm  upon  it, 

That  my  weak  soul  took  instant  flight  to  thee, 

Lost  in  the  fondest  gush  of  that  sweet  witchery ! 

But  when  the  dance  was  o'er,  and  arm  in  arm 
(The  full  heart  beating  'gainst  the  elbow  warm), 


512  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES. 

We  pass'd  to  the  great  refreshment  hall, 

Where  the  heap'd  cheese-cakes  and  the  comfits  small 

Lay,  like  a  hive  of  sunbeams,  to  burn 

Around  the  margin  of  the  negus  urn; 

When  my  poor  quivering  hand  you  finger'd  twice, 

And,  with  inquiring  accents,  whisper'd  "  Ice, 

Water,  or  cream  ?"     I  could  no  more  dissemble, 

But  dropp'd  upon  the  couch  all  in  a  tremble. 

A  swimming  faintness  misted  o'er  my  brain, 

The  corks  seem'd  starting  from  the  brisk  champagne, 

The  custards  fell  untouch'd  upon  the  floor, 

Thine  eyes  met  mine.     That  night  we  danced  no  more ! 


LOUIS  NAPOLEON'S   ADDRESS  TO  -HIS   ARMY. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

GUARDS  !  who  at  Smolensko  fled — 
No — I  beg  your  pardon — bled  ! 
For  my  Uncle  blood  you  've  shed, 
Do  the  same  for  me. 

Now 's  the  day  and  now 's  the  hour, 
Heads  to  split  and  streets  to  scour ; 
Strike  for  rank,  promotion,  power, 
Sawg,  and  eau  de  vie. 

Who 's  afraid  a  child  to  kill  ? 
Who  respects  a  shopman's  till  ? 
Who  would  pay  a  tailor's  bill  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee. 

Who  would  burst  a  goldsmith's  door, 
Shoot  a  dun,  or  sack  a  store  ? 
Let  him  arm,  and  go  before — 

That  is,  follow  me ! 

See  the  mob,  to  madness  riled, 
Up  the  barricades  have  piled  ; 
In  among  them,  man  and  child, 
Unrelentingly ! 


PARODIES     AXD     BURLESQUES.  513 

Shoot  the  men !  there 's  scarcely  one 
In  a  dozen 's  got  a  gun : 
Stop  them,  if  they  try  to  run, 
With  artillery  I 

Shoot  the  boys !  each  one  may  grow 
Into — of  the  state — a  foe 
(Meaning  by  the  state,  you  know, 
My  supremacy !) 

Shoot  the  girls  and  women  old  ! 
Those  may  bear  us  traitors  bold — 
These  may  be  inclined  to  scold 
Our  severity. 

Sweep  the  streets  of  all  who  may 
Kashly  venture  in  the  way, 
Warning  for  a  future  day 
Satisfactory. 

Then,  when  stilTd  is  ev'ry  voice, 
We,  the  nation's  darling  choice, 
Calling  on  them  to  rejoice, 

Tell  them,  FRANCE  is  FREE. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BOULEVARD. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 

ON  Paris,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
The  gay  "  Comique"  made  goodly  show, 
Habitues  crowding  every  row 
To  hear  Limnandier's  opera. 

But  Paris  showed  another  sight, 
When,  mustering  in  the  dead  of  night, 
Her  masters  stood,  at  morning  light, 
The  crack  chasseurs  of  Africa. 

By  servants  in  my  pay  betrayed, 
Cavaignac,  then,  my  prisoner  made, 
Wrote  that  a  circumstance  delayed 
His  marriage  rite  and  revelry. 
22* 


514  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 

Then  shook  small  Thiers,  with  terror  riven ; 
Then  stormed  Bedeau,  while  gaol- ward  driven ; 
And,  swearing  (not  alone  by  Heaven), 
Was  seized  bold  Lamoriciere. 

But  louder  rose  the  voice  of  woe 
When  soldiers  sacked  each  cit's  dep&t, 
And  tearing  down  a  helpless  foe, 
Flashed  Magnan's  red  artillery. 

More,  more  arrests !  Changarnier  brave 
Is  dragged  to  prison  like  a  knave : 
No  time  allowed  the  swell  to  shave, 
Or  use  the  least  perfumery. 

'Tis  morn,  and  now  Hortense's  son 
(Perchance  her  spouse's  too)  has  won 
The  imperial  crown.     The  French  are  done, 
Chawed  up  most  incontestably. 

Few,  few  shall  write,  and  none  shall  meet ; 
Suppressed  shall  be  each  journal-sheet ; 
And  every  serf  beneath  my  feet 

Shall  hail  the  soldier's  Emperor. 


PUFFS    POETICAL. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN. 
I. 

PARIS   AND    HELEN. 

As  the  youthful  Paris  presses 

Helen  to  his  ivory  breast, 
Sporting  with  her  golden  tresses, 

Close  and  ever  closer  pressed. 

He  said :  "  So  let  me  quaff  the  nectar, 

Which  thy  lips  of  ruby  yield ; 
Glory  I  can  leave  to  Hector, 

Gathered  in  the  tented  field. 


PARODIES     AND    B  U  B  L  E  S  Q  U  E  S.  515 

"  Let  me  ever  gaze  upon  thee, 

Look  into  thine  eyes  so  deep ; 
With  a  daring  hand  I  won  thee, 

With  a  faithful  heart  I  'U  keep. 

"  Oh,  my  Helen,  thou  bright  wonder, 

Who  was  ever  like  to  thee  ? 
Jove  would  lay  aside  his  thunder, 

So  he  might  be  blest  like  me. 

"  How  mine  eyes  so  fondly  linger 

On  thy  soft  and  pearly  skin ; 
Scan  each  round  and  rosy  finger, 

Drinking  draughts  of  beauty  in ! 

"  Tell  me,  whence  thy  beauty,  fairest ! 

Whence  thy  cheek's  enchanting  bloom  ? 
Whence  the  rosy  hue  thou  wearest, 

Breathing  round  thee  rich  perfume  ?" 

Thus  he  spoke,  with  heart  that  panted, 

Clasped  her  fondly  to  his  side, 
Gazed  on  her  with  look  enchanted, 

While  his  Helen  thus  replied : 

"  Be  no  discord,  love,  between  us, 

If  I  not  the  secret  tell ! 
'Twas  a  gift  I  had  of  Venus, — 

Venus  who  hath  loved  me  well 

"  And  she  told  me  as  she  gave  it, 

'  Let  not  e'er  the  charm  be  known, 
O'er  thy  person  freely  lave  jit, 

Only  when  thou  art  alone.' 

"  'Tis  inclosed  in  yonder  casket — 

Here  behold  its  golden  key ; 
But  its  name — love,  do  not  ask  it, 

Tell 't  I  may  not,  e'en  to  thee  !" 

Long  with  vow  and  kiss  he  plied  her, 

Still  the  secret  did  she  keep, 
Till  at  length  he  sank  beside  her, 

Seemed  as  he  had  dropped  to  sleep. 


516  PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES, 

Soon  was  Helen  laid  in  slumber, 
When  her  Paris,  rising  slow, 

Did  his  fair  neck  disencumber 
From  her  rounded  arms  of  snow ; 

Then  her  heedless  fingers  oping, 
Takes  the  key  and  steals  away, 

To  the  ebon  table  groping, 

Where  the  wondrous  casket  lay  ; 

Eagerly  the  lid  uncloses, 

Sees  within  it,  laid  aslope, 
PEAR'S  LIQUID  BLOOM  OF  ROSES, 

Cakes  of  his  TRANSPARENT  SOAP  ! 


II. 

TARQUIN   AND   THE   AUGUR. 

GINGERLY  is  good  King  Tarquin  shaving, 

Gently  glides  the  razor  o'er  his  chin, 
Near  him  stands  a  grim  Haruspex  raving, 
And  with  nasal  whine  he  pitches  in, 
Church  Extension  hints, 
Till  the  monarch  squints, 
Snicks  his  chin,  and  swears — a  deadly  sin  I 

"  Jove  confound  thee,  thou  bare-legged  impostor  I 

From  my  dressing  table  get  thee  gone ! 
Dost  thou  think  my  flesh  is  double  Glo'ster  ? 
There  again !     That  cut  was  to  the  bone  I 
Get  ye  from  my  sight ; 
I  '11  believe  you're  right 
When  my  razor  cuts  the  sharping  hone !" 

Thus  spoke  Tarquin  with  a  deal  of  dryness ; 

But  the  Augur,  eager  for  his  fees, 
Answered — "  Try  it,  your  Imperial  Highness, 
Press  a  little  harder,  if  you  please. 
There  1  the  deed  is  done  1" 
Through  the  solid  stone 
Went  the  steel  as  glibly  as  through  cheese. 


PARODIES     A.ND     BURLESQUES.  517 

So  the  Augur  touched  the  tin  of  Tarquin, 

Who  suspected  some  celestial  aid : 
But  he  wronged  the  blameless  Gods ;  for  hearken  1 
Ere  the  monarch's  bet  was  rashly  laid, 
With  his  searching  eye 
Did  the  priest  espy 
RODGER'S  name  engraved  upon  the  blade. 


REFLECTIONS  OF  A   PROUD   PEDESTRIAN. 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

I  SAW  the  curl  of  his  waving  lash, 

And  the  glance  of  his  knowing  eye, 

And  I  knew  that  he  thought  he  was  cutting  a  dash, 
As  his  steed  went  thundering  by. 

And  he  may  ride  in  the  rattling  gig, 

Or  flourish  the  Stanhope  gay, 
And  dream  that  he  looks  exceeding  big 

To  the  people  that  walk  in  the  way ; 

But  he  shall  think,  when  the  night  is  still, 
On  the  stable-boy's  gathering  numbers, 

And  the  ghost  of  many  a  veteran  bill 
Shall  hover  around  his  slumbers ; 

The  ghastly  dun  shall  worry  his  sleep, 

And  constables  cluster  around  him, 
And  he  shall  creep  from  the  wood-hole  deep 

Where  their  specter  eyes  have  found  him  I 

Ay  !  gather  your  reins,  and  crack  your  thong, 

And  bid  your  steed  go  faster  ; 
He  does  not  know  as  he  scrambles  along, 

That  he  has  a  fool  for  his  master ; 

And  hurry  away  on  your  lonely  ride, 

Nor  deign  from  the  mire  to  save  me ; 

I  will  paddle  it  stoutly  at  your  side 

With  the  tandem  that  nature  gave  mo ! 


518  PARODIES     A  X  P     RHRL  ESQUES. 


EVENING. 

BY    A    TAILOR. 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

DAY  hath  put  on  his  jacket,  and  around 
His  burning  bosom  buttoned  it  with  stars. 
Here  will  I  lay  me  on  the  velvet  grass, 
That  is  like  padding  to  earth's  meager  ribs, 
And  hold  communion  with  the  things  about  me. 
Ah  me !  how  lovely  is  the  golden  braid, 
That  binds  the  skirt  of  night's  descending  robe ! 
The  thin  leaves,  quivering  on  their  silken  threads, 
Do  make  a  music  like  to  rustling  satin, 
As  the  light  breezes  smooth  their  downy  nap. 

Ha !  what  is  this  that  rises  to  my  touch, 
So  like  a  cushion  ?     Can  it  be  a  cabbage  ? 
It  is,  it  is  that  deeply  injured  flower, 
Which  boys  do  flout  us  with ;  — but  yet  I  love  thee, 
Thou  giant  rose,  wrapped  in  a  green  surtout. 
Doubtless  in  Eden  thou  didst  blush  as  bright 
As  these,  thy  puny  brethren;  and  thy  breath 
Sweetened  the  fragrance  of  her  spicy  air ; 
But  now  thou  seemest  like  a  bankrupt  beau, 
Stripped  of  his  gaudy  hues  and  essences, 
And  growing  portly  in  his  sober  garments. 

Is  that  a  swan  that  rides  upon  the  water  ? 

0  no,  it  is  that  other  gentle  bird, 
Which  is  the  patron  of  our  noble  calling. 

1  well  remember,  in  my  early  years, 

When  these  young  hands  first  closed  upon  a  goose ; 

I  have  a  scar  upon  my  thimble  finger, 

Which  chronicles  the  hour  of  young  ambition. 

My  father  was  a  tailor,  and  his  father, 

And  my  sire's  grandsire,  all  of  them  were  tailors ; 

They  had  an  ancient  goose, — it  was  an  heir-loom 

From  some  remoter  tailor  of  our  race. 

It  happened  I  did  see  it  on  a  time 

When  none  was  near,  and  I  did  deal  with  it, 

And  it  did  burn  me, — oh.  most  tearfully  I 


PARODIES    AND     BURLESQUES.  519 

It  is  a  joy  to  straighten  out  one's  limbs, 
And  leap  elastic  from  the  level  counter, 
Leaving  the  petty  grievances  of  earth, 
The  breaking  thread,  the  din  of  clashing  shears, 
And  all  the  needles  that  do  wound  the  spirit. 
For  such  a  pensive  hour  of  soothing  silence. 
Kind  Nature,  shuffling  in  her  loose  undress, 
Lays  bare  her  shady  bosom ;  I  can  feel 
With  all  around  me ; — I  can  hail  the  flowers 
That  sprig  earth's  mantle, — and  yon  quiet  bird, 
That  rides  the  stream,  is  to  me  as  a  brother. 
The  vulgar  know  not  all  the  hidden  pockets, 
Where  Nature  stows  away  her  loveliness. 
But  this  unnatural  posture  of  my  legs 
Cramps  my  extended  calves,  and  I  must  go 
Where  I  can  coil  them  in  their  wonted  fashion. 


PIIAETHON; 

OR,    THE    AMATEUR   COACHMAN. 

JOHN   G.    SAXE. 

DAN  PHAETHON — so  the  histories  run — 

Was  a  jolly  young  chap,  and  a  son  of  the  SUN  ; 

Or  rather  of  PHCEBUS — but  as  to  his  mother, 

G-enealogists  make  a  deuce  of  a  pother, 

Some  going  for  one,  and  some  for  another ! 

For  myself,  I  must  say,  as  a  careful  explorer, 

This  roaring  young  blade  was  the  son  of  AURORA  ! 

Now  old  Father  PHCEBUS,  ere  railways  begun 

To  elevate  funds  and  depreciate  fun, 

Drove  a  very  fast  coach  by  the  name  of  "  THE  SUN  ;" 

Running,  they  say, 

Trips  every  day 

(On  Sundays  and  all,  in  a  heathenish  way). 
And  lighted  up  with  a  famous  array 
Of  lanterns  that  shone  with  a  brilliant  display, 
And  dashing  along  like  a  gentleman's  "  shay." 
With  never  a  fare,  and  nothing  to  pay  ! 


520  PARODIES     AND    BURLESQUES. 

Now  PHAETHON  begged  of  his  doting  old  father, 

To  grant  him  a  favor,  and  this  the  rather, 

Since  some  one  had  hinted,  the  youth  to  annoy, 

That  he  was  n't  by  any  means  PHOEBUS' s  boy  ! 

Intending,  the  rascally  son  of  a  gun, 

To  darken  the  brow  of  the  son  of  the  SUN  ! 

"  By  the  terrible  Styx !"  said  the  angry  sire, 

While  his  eyes  flashed  volumes  of  fury  and  fire, 

"  To  prove  your  re  viler  an  infamous  liar, 

I  swear  I  will  grant  you  whate'er  you  desire  !" 

"  Then  by  my  head," 

The  youngster  said, 

"  I  '11  mount  the  coach  when  the  horses  are  fed  1 — 
For  there 's  nothing  I  'd  choose,  as  I  'm  alive, 
Like  a  seat  on  the  box,  and  a  dashing  drive !" 

"  Nay,  PHAETHON,  don't — 

I  beg  you  won't — 

Just  stop  a  moment  and  think  upon  't ! 
You  're  quite  too  young,"  continued  the  sage, 
"  To  tend  a  coach  at  your  tender  age  ! 

Besides,  you  see, 

'T  will  really  be 
Your  first  appearance  on  any  stage  ! 

Desist,  my  child, 

The  cattle  are  wild, 

And  when  their  mettle  is  thoroughly  '  riled,' 
Depend  upon 't,  the  coach  '11  be  '  spiled' — 
They  're  not  the  fellows  to  draw  it  mild  ! 

Desist,  I  say, 

You  '11  rue  the  day — 
So  mind,  and  don't  be  foolish,  PHA  !" 

But  the  youth  was  proud, 

And  swore  aloud, 

'T  was  just  the  thing  to  astonish  the  crowd — 
He  'd  have  the  horses  and  would  n't  be  cowed  ! 
In  vain  the  boy  was  cautioned  at  large, 
He  called  for  the  chargers,  unheeding  the  charge, 
And  vowed  that  any  young  fellow  of  force, 
Could  manage  a  dozen  coursers,  of  course  ! 
Now  PncEsus  felt  exceedingly  sorry 
He  had  given  his  word  in  such  a  hurry, 
But  having  sworn  by  the  Styx,  no  doubt 
He  was  in  for  it  now,  and  could  n't  back  out. 


PARODIES     A.ND    BURLESQUES.  52] 

So  calling  PHAETIION  up  in  a  trice, 
He  gave  the  youth  a  bit  of  advice : — 

"  lParce  stim.ulw,  utere  loris  /' 
(A  "  stage  direction,"  of  which  the  core  is, 
Don't  use  the  whip — they're  ticklish  things — 
But,  whatever  you  do,  hold  on  to  the  strings  I) 
Remember  the  rule  of  the  Jehu-tribe  is, 

'  Media  tutissimus  ibis1 

(As  the  Judge  remarked  to  a  rowdy  Scotchman, 
Who  was  going  to  quod  between  two  watchmen  I) 
So  mind  your  eye,  and  spare  your  goad, 
Be  shy  of  the  stones,  and  keep  in  the  road !" 

Now;  PHAETIION,  perched  in  the  coachman's  place, 

Drove  off  the  steeds  at  a  furious  pace, 

Fast  as  coursers  running  a  race, 

Or  bounding  along  in  a  steeple-chase ! 

Of  whip  and  shout  there  was  no  lack, 

"  Crack — whack — 

Whack — crack" 

Eesounded  along  the  horses'  back  ! — 
Frightened  beneath  the  stinging  lash, 
Cutting  their  flanks  in  many  a  gash, 
On — on  they  sped  as  swift  as  a  flash, 
Through  thick  and  thin  away  they  dash, 
(Such  rapid  driving  is  always  rash  !) 
When  all  at  once,  with  a  dreadful  craih, 
The  whole  "  establishment"  went  to  smash  ! 

And  PHAETHON,  he, 

As  all  agree, 

Off  the  coach  was  suddenly  hurled, 
Into  a  puddle,  and  out  of  the  world  ! 


MORAL. 

Don't  rashly  take  to  dangerous  courses — 
Nor  set  it  down  in  your  table  of  forces, 
That  any  one  man  equals  any  four  horses  I 
Don't  swear  by  the  Styx ! — 
It's  one  of  OLD  NICK'S 
Diabolical  tricks 

To  get  people  into  a  regular  "  fix," 
And  hold  'em  there  as  fast  as  bricks ! 


622  PARODIES     AND     BURLESQUES. 


THE   SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

[AFTER  GOLDSMITH.] 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
PROPT  on  the  marsh,  a  dwelling  now,  I  see 
The  humble  school-house  of  my  A,  B,  C, 
Where  well-drilled  urchins,  each  behind  his  tire, 
Waited  in  ranks  the  wished  command  to  fire, 
Then  all  together,  when  the  signal  came, 
Discharged  their  a-b  abs  against  the  dame, 
Who,  'mid  the  volleyed  learning,  firm  and  calm, 
Patted  the  furloughed  ferule  on  her  palm, 
And,  to  our  wonder,  could  detect  at  once 
Who  flashed  the  pan,  and  who  was  downright  dunco. 

There  young  Devotion  learned  to  climb  with  ease 
The  gnarly  limbs  of  Scripture  family-trees, 
And  he  was  most  commended  and  admired 
Who  soonest  to  the  topmost  twig  perspired  ; 
Each  name  was  called  as  many  various  ways 
As  pleased  the  reader's  ear  on  different  days, 
So  that  the  weather,  or  the  ferule's  stings, 
Colds  in  the  head,  or  fifty  other  things, 
Transformed  the  helpless  Hebrew  thrice  a  week 
To  guttural  Pequot  or  resounding  Greek, 
The  vibrant  accent  skipping  here  and  there 
Just  as  it  pleased  invention  or  despair  ; 
No  controversial  Hebraist  was  the  Dame  ; 
With  or  without  the  points  pleased  her  the  same ; 
If  any  tyro  found  a  name  too  tough, 
And  looked  at  her,  pride  furnished  skill  enough  ; 
She  nerved  her  larynx  for  the  desperate  thing, 
And  cleared  the  five-barred  syllables  at  a  spring. 

Ah,  dear  old  times  I  there  once  it  was  my  hap, 
Perched  on  a  stool,  to  wear  the  long-eared  cap ; 
From  books  degraded,  there  I  sat  at  ease, 
A  drone,  the  envy  of  compulsory  bees. 


E  P  I  G  II  A  M  M  A  TIC. 


EPIGRAMMATIC 


EPIGRAMS    OF    BEN    JONSON. 
TO    FINE    GRAND. 

WHAT  is 't  FINE  GRAND,  makes  thee  iny  friendship  fly, 

Or  take  an  Epigram  so  fearfully, 

As  't  were  a  challenge,  or  a  borrower's  letter  ? 

The  world  must  know  your  greatness  is  my  debtor. 

Imprimis,  Grand,  you  owe  me  for  a  jest 

I  lent  you,  on  mere  acquaintance,  at  a  feast. 

Item,  a  tale  or  two  some  fortnight  after, 

That  yet  maintains  you,  and  your  house  in  laughter. 

Item,  the  Babylonian  song  you  sing ; 

Item,  a  fair  Greek  poesy  for  a  ring, 

With  which  a  learned  madam  you  holy. 

Item,  a  charm  surrounding  fearfully 

Your  partie-per-pale  picture,  one  half  drawn 

In  solemn  Cyprus,  th'  other  cobweb  lawn. 

Item,  a  gulling  impress  for  you,  at  tilt. 

Item,  your  mistress'  anagram,  in  your  hilt, 

Item,  your  o\vn,  sew'd  ia  your  mistress'  smock. 

Item,  an  epitaph  on  my  lord's  cock, 

In  most  vile  verses,  and  cost  me  more  pain, 

Than  had  I  made  'em  good,  to  fit  your  vein. 

Forty  things  more,  dear  Grand,  which  you  know  true, 

For  which,  or  pay  me  quickly,  or  I'll  pay  you. 


TO    BRAINHARDY. 

Hardy,  thy  brain  is  valiant,  'tis  confest, 
Thou  more  ;  that  with  it  every  day  dar'st  jest 


526  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Thyself  into  fresh  brawls ;  when  cali'd  upon, 
Scarce  thy  week's  swearing  brings  thee  off  of  one ; 
So  in  short  time,  thou  art  in  arrearage  grown 
Some  hundred  quarrels,  yet  dost  thou  fight  none : 
Nor  need'st  thou ;  for  those  few,  by  oath  released, 
Make  good  what  thou  dar'st  in  all  the  rest 
Keep  thyself  there,  and  think  thy  valor  right; 
He  that  dares  damn  himself,  dares  more  than  fight 


TO    DOCTOR    EMPIRIC. 

When  men  a  dangerous  disease  did  'scape, 
Of  old,  they  gave  a  cock  to  JSsculape ; 
Let  me  give  two,  that  doubly  am  got  free ; 
From  my  disease's  danger,  and  from  thee. 

TO    SIR    ANNUAL    FILTER. 

Filter,  the  most  may  admire  thee,  though  not  I ; 

And  thou,  right  guiltless,  may'st  plead  to  it,  why  ? 

For  thy  late  sharp  device.     I  say  'tis  fit 

All  brains,  at  times  of  triumph,  should  run  wit ; 

For  then  our  water-conduits  do  run  wine  • 

But  that 's  put  in,  thou  'It  say.     Why,  so  is  thine. 

ON    BANKS    THE    USURER. 

Banks  feels  no  lameness  of  his  knotty  gout, 
His  moneys  travel  for  him  in  and  out, 
And  though  the  soundest  legs  go  every  day, 
He  toils  to  be  at  hell,  as  soon  as  they. 


ON    CHEVRIL    THE    LAWYER. 

No  cause,  nor  client  fat,  will  Cheveril  lecse, 
But  as  they  come,  on  both  sides  he  takes  fees, 
And  pleaseth  both ;  for  while  he  melts  his  grease 
For  this ;  that  wins,  for  whom  he  holds  his  peace. 


EPIGKAMMAT1C, 


527 


EPIGRAMATIO  VERSES    BY    SAMUEL    BUTLER. 

OPINION. 

OPINION  governs  all  mankind, 
Like  the  blind's  leading  of  the  blind ; 
For  he  that  has  no  eyes  in  's  head, 
Must  be  by  a  dog  glad  to  be  led ; 
And  no  beasts  have  so  little  in  'em 
As  that  inhuman  brute,  Opinion. 
'Tis  an  infectious  pestilence, 
The  tokens  upon  wit  and  sense, 
That  with  a  venomous  contagion 
Invades  the  sick  imagination : 
And,  when  it  seizes  any  part, 
It  strikes  the  poison  to  the  heart. 
This  men  of  one  another  catch, 
By  contact,  as  the  humors  match ; 
And  nothing's  so  perverse  in  nature 
As  a  profound  opiniator. 


CRITICS. 

Critics  are  like  a  kind  of  flies,  that  breed 
In  wild  fig-trees,  and  when  they  're  grown  up,  feed 
Upon  the  raw  fruit  of  the  nobler  kind, 
And,  by  their  nibbling  on  the  outward  rind. 
Open  the  pores,  and  make  way  for  the  sun 
To  ripen  it  sooner  than  he  would  have  done. 


HYPOCRISY. 

Hypocrisy  will  serve  as  well 
To  propagate  a  church,  as  zeal ; 
As  persecution  and  promotion 
Do  equally  advance  devotion  : 
So  round  white  stones  will  serve,  they  say, 
As  well  as  eggs  to  make  hens  lay. 


EPIGRAMMATIC. 


POLISH. 


All  wit  and  fancy,  like  a  diamond, 
The  more  exact  and  curious  'tis  ground, 
Is  forced  for  every  carat  to  abate, 
As  much  in  value  as  it  wants  in  weight, 


THE    GODLY. 

A  godly  man,  that  has  served  out  his  time 
In  holiness,  may  set  up  any  crime ; 
As  scholars,  when  they  've  taken  their  degrees, 
May  set  up  any  faculty  they  please. 


PIETY. 

Why  should  not  piety  be  made, 
As  well  as  equity,  a  trade, 
And  men  get  money  by  devotion, 
As  well  as  making  of  a  motion  ? 
B'  allow'd  to  pray  upon  conditions, 
As  well  as  suitors  in  petitions  ? 
And  in  a  congregation  pray. 
No  less  than  Chancery,  for  pay  ? 


MARRIAGE. 

All  sorts  of  vot'ries,  that  profess 
To  bind  themselves  apprentices 
To  Heaven,  abjure,  with  solemn  vows, 
Not  Cut  and  Long-tail,  but  a  Spouse 
As  the  worst  of  all  impediments 
To  hinder  their  devout  intents. 


POETS. 

It  is  not  poetry  that  makes  men  poor  ; 
For  few  do  write  that  were  not  so  before ; 
And  those  that  have  writ  best,  had  they  been  rich, 
Had  ne'er  been  clapp'd  with  a  poetic  itch ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  520 

Had  loved  their  ease  too  well  to  take  the  pains 
To  undergo  that  drudgery  of  brains ; 
But,  being  for  all  other  trades  unfit, 
Only  t'  avoid  being  idle,  set  up  wit. 


PUFFING. 

They  that  do  write  in  authors'  praises, 
And  freely  give  their  friends  their  voices, 
Are  not  confined  to  what  is  true ; 
That's  not  to  give,  but  pay  a  due : 
For  praise,  that 's  due,  does  give  no  more 
To  worth,  than  what  it  had  before ; 
But  to  commend  without  desert, 
Requires  a  mastery  of  art, 
That  sets  a  gloss  on  what 's  amiss, 
And  writes  what  should  be,  not  what  is. 


POLITICIANS. 

All  the  politics  of  the  great 
Are  like  the  cunning  of  a  cheat, 
That  lets  his  false  dice  freely  run, 
And  trusts  them  to  themselves  alone, 
But  never  lets  a  true  one  stir, 
Without  some  fingering  trick  or  slur ; 
And,  when  the  gamester  doubts  his  play, 
Conveys  his  false  dice  safe  away, 
And  leaves  the  true  ones  in  the  lurch 
T'  endure  the  torture  of  the  search 


FEAR. 

There  needs  no  other  charm,  nor  conjurer 
To  raise  infernal  spirits  up,  but  fear ; 
That  makes  men  pull  their  horns  in,  like  a  snail 
TLat  's  both  a  pris'ner  to  itself,  and  jail ; 
Draws  more  fantastic  shapes,  than  in  the  grains 
Of  knotted  wood,  in  some  men's  crazy  brains ; 
When  all  the  cocks  they  think  they  see,  and  bulls, 
Are  only  in  the  insides  of  their  skulls. 
23 


EPIGRAMMATIC. 


THE    LAW. 


The  law  can  take  a  purse  in  open  court 
While  it  condemns  a  less  delinquent  for  't. 


THE    SAME. 

Who  can  deserve,  for  breaking  of  the  laws, 
A  greater  penance  than  an  honest  cause. 


THE    SAME. 

All  those  that  do  but  rob  and  steal  enough, 
Are  punishment  and  court-of-justice  proof, 
And  need  not  fear,  nor  be  concerned  a  straw 
In  all  the  idle  bugbears  of  the  law ; 
But  confidently  rob  the  gallows  too, 
As  well  as  other  sufferers,  of  their  due.  - 


CONFESSION. 

In  the  Church  of  Rome  to  go  to  shrift 
Is  but  to  put  the  soul  on  a  clean  shift. 


SMATTERERS. 

All  smatterers  are  more  brisk  and  pert 
Than  those  that  understand  an  art ; 
As  little  sparkles  shine  more  bright 
Than  glowing  coals,  that  give  them  light. 


BAD     WRITERS. 

As  he  that  makes  his  mark  is  understood 
To  write  his  name,  and  'tis  in  law  as  good, 
So  he,  that  can  not  write  one  word  of  sense 
Believes  he  has  as  legal  a  pretense 
To  scribble  what  he  does  not  understand, 
As  idiots  have  a  title  to  their  land 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  .531 


THE     OPINION  A  TIVE. 

Opinionators  naturally  differ 
From  other  men ;  as  wooden  legs  are  stifier 
Than  those  of  pliant  joints,  to  yield  and  bow, 
Which  way  soever  they  're  design'd  to  go. 


LANGUAGE  OF  THE  LEARNED. 

Were  Tully  now  alive,  he  'd  be  to  seek 
In  all  our  Latin  terms  of  art  and  Greek ; 
Would  never  understand  one  word  of  sense 
The  most  irrefragable  schoolman  means : 
As  if  the  Schools  design'd  their  terms  of  art, 
Not  to  advance  a  science,  but  to  divert ; 
As  Hocus  Pocus  conjures  to  amuse 
The  rabble  from  observing  what  he  does. 


GOOD    WRITING. 

As  'tis  a  greater  mystery  in  the  art 
Of  painting,  to  foreshorten  any  parr, 
Than  draw  it  out;  so  'tis  in  books  the  chief 
Of  all  perfections  to  be  plain  and  brief. 


COURTIERS. 

As  in  all  great  and  crowded  fairs 
Monsters  and  puppet-play  are  wares, 
Which  in  the  less  will  not  go  off, 
Because  they  have  not  money  enough ; 
So  men  in  princes'  courts  will  pass 
That  will  not  in  another  place. 


INVENTIONS. 

All  the  inventions  that  the  world  contains, 
Were  not  by  reason  first  found  out,  nor  brains ; 
But  pass  for  theirs  who  had  the  luck  to  light 
Upon  them  by  mistake  or  oversight. 


532  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


LOGICIANS. 

Logicians  used  to  clap  a  proposition, 
As  justices  do  criminals,  in  prison, 
And,  in  as  learn' d  authentic  nonsense,  writ 
The  names  of  all  their  moods  and  figures  fit ; 
For  a  logician's  one  that  has  been  broke 
To  ride  and  pace  his  reason  by  the  book  ; 
And  by  their  rules,  and  precepts,  and  examples, 
To  put  his  wits  into  a  kind  of  trammels. 


LABORIOUS    WRITERS. 

Those  get  the  least  that  take  the  greatest  pains, 
But  most  of  all  i'  th'  drudgery  of  the  brains, 
A  natural  sign  of  weakness,  as  an  ant 
Is  more  laborious  than  an  elephant ; 
And  children  are  more  busy  at  their  play, 
Than  those  that  wiseliest  pass  tKeir  time  away. 


ON    A    CLUB    OF    SOTS. 

The  jolly  members  of  a  toping  club, 
Like  pipestaves,  are  but  hoop'd  into  a  tub ; 
And  in  a  close  confederacy  link, 
For  nothing  else  but  only  to  hold  drink. 


HOLLAND. 

A  country  that  draws  fifty  feet  of  water, 
In  which  men  live  as  in  the  hold  of  Nature ; 
And  when  the  sea  does  in  upon  them  break, 
And  drown  a  province,  does  but  spring  a  leak  ; 
That  always  ply  the  pump,  and  never  think 
They  can  be  safe,  but  at  the  rate  they  stink ; 
That  live  as  if  they  had  been  run  a-ground, 
And,  when  they  die,  are  cast  away  and  drowii'd ; 
That  dwell  in  ships,  like  swarms  of  rats,  and  prey 
Upon  the  goods  all  nations'  fleets  convey  ; 
And,  when  their  merchants  are  blown  up  and  cracked, 
Whole  towns  are  cast  away  and  wrecked ; 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  533 

That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes, 
And  serve  their  cousin-germans  up  in  dishes : 
A  land  that  rides  at  anchor,  and  is  moor'd, 
In  which  they  do  not  live,  but  go  a-board. 


WOMEN. 

The  souls  of  women  are  so  small, 
That  some  believe  they  've  none  at  all ; 
Or  if  they  have,  like  cripples,  still 
They  've  but  one  faculty,  the  will ; 
The  other  two  are  quite  laid  by 
To  make  up  one  great  tyranny ; 
And  though  their  passions  have  most  pow'r, 
They  are,  like  Turks,  but  slaves  the  more 
To  th'  abs'lute  will,  that  with  a  breath 
Has  sovereign  pow'r  of  life  and  death, 
And,  as  its  little  int'rests  move, 
Can  turn  'em  all  to  hate  or  love ; 
For  nothing,  in  a  moment,  turn 
To  frantic  love,  disdain,  and  scorn ; 
And  make  that  love  degenerate 
T'  as  great  extremity  of  hate  ; 
And  hate  again,  and  scorn,  and  piques, 
To  flames,  and  raptures,  and  love-tricks. 


EPIGRAMS   OF   EDMUND    WALLER 

ON   A   PAINTED  LADY  WITH  ILL  TEETH. 

WERE  men  so  dull  they  could  not  see 
That  LYCE  painted  ;  should  they  flee, 
Like  simple  birds,  into  a  net, 
So  grossly  woven,  and  ill  set, 
Her  own  teeth  would  undo  the  knot, 
And  let  all  go  that  she  had  got. 
Those  teeth  fair  LYCE  must  not  show, 
If  she  would  bite  :  her  lovers,  though 


504  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Like  birds  they  stoop  at  seeming  grapes, 
Are  dis-abus'd,  when  first  she  gapes : 
The  rotten  bones  discover'd  there, 
Show  'tis  a  painted  sepulcher. 


OF   THE    MARRIAGE    OF    THE   DWARFS. 

Design,  or  chance,  makes  others  wive ; 

But  nature  did  this  match  contrive : 

EVE  might  as  well  have  ADAM  fled, 

As  she  denied  her  little  bed 

To  him,  for  whom  heav'n  seem'd  to  frame, 

And  measure  out,  this  only  dame. 

Thrice  happy  is  that  humble  pair, 
Beneath  the  level  of  all  care  ! 
Over  whose  heads  those  arrows  fly 
Of  sad  distrust,  and  jealousy : 
Secured  in  as  high  extreme, 
As  if  the  world  held  none  but  them. 

To  him  the  fairest  nymphs  do  show 
Like  moving  mountains,  topp'd  with  snow : 
And  ev'ry  man  a  POLYPIIEME 
Does  to  his  GALATEA  seem  ; 
None  may  presume  her  faith  to  prove  ; 
He  proffers  death  that  proffers  love. 

Ah  CHLORIS  !  that  kind  nature  thus 
From  all  the  world  had  sever'd  us : 
Creating  for  ourselves  us  two, 
As  love  has  me  for  only  you  ! 


EPIGRAMS    OF    MATTHEW   PRIOR, 

A   SIMILE. 

DEAR  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  pop 
Thy  head  into  a  tin-man's  shop  ? 
There,  Thomas,  didst  thou  never  see 
C'Tis  but  by  way  of  simile) 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  536 

A  squirrel  spend  his  little  rage, 
In  jumping  round  a  rolling  cage  ? 
The  cage,  as  either  side  turn'd  up, 
Striking  a  ring  of  bells  a-top  ? — 

Mov'd  in  the  orb,  pleas'd  with  the  chimes, 
The  foolish  creature  thinks  he  climbs : 
But  here  or  there,  turn  wood  or  wire, 
He  never  gets  two  inches  higher. 

So  fares  it  with  those  merry  blades, 
That  frisk  it  under  Pindus'  shades. 
In  noble  songs,  and  lofty  odes, 
They  tread  on  stars,  and  talk  with  gods ; 
Still  dancing  in  an  airy  round, 
Still  pleased  with  their  own  verses'  sound ; 
Brought  back,  how  fast  soe'er  they  go, 
Always  aspiring,  always  low. 

THE    FLIES. 

Say,  sire  of  insects,  mighty  Sol, 

(A  Fly  upon  the  chariot  pole 

Cries  out),  what  Blue-bottle  alive 

Did  ever  with  such  fury  drive  ? 

Tell  Belzebub,  great  father,  tell 

(Says  t'  other,  perch'd  upon  the  wheel), 

Did  ever  any  mortal  Fly 

Raise  such  a  cloud  of  dust  as  I  ? 

My  judgment  turn'd  the  whole  debate : 
My  valor  sav'd  the  sinking  state. 
So  talk  two  idle  buzzing  things ; 
Toss  up  their  heads,  and  stretch  then-  wings. 
But  let  the  truth  to  light  be  brought ; 
This  neither  spoke,  nor  t'  other  fought  : 
No  merit  in  their  own  behavior : 
Both  rais'd,  but  by  their  party's  favor. 

PHILLIS'S    AGE. 

How  old  may  Phillis  be,  you  ask,        » 
Whose  beauty  thus  all  hearts  engages  ? 

To  answer  is  no  easy  task  : 
For  she  has  really  two  ages. 


536  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Stiff  in  brocade,  and  pinch'd  in  stays, 
Her  patches,  paint,  and  jewels  on ; 

All  day  let  envy  view  her  face, 
And  Phillis  is  but  twenty-one. 


Paint,  patches,  jewels  laid  aside, 
At  night  astronomers  agree, 

The  evening  has  the  day  belied ; 
And  Phillis  is  some  forty-three. 


TO    THE    DUKE    DE    NOALLES. 

Vain  the  concern  which  you  express, 
That  uncall'd  Alard  will  possess 

Your  house  and  coach,  both  day  and  night, 
And  that  Macbeth  was  haunted  less 

By  Banquo's  restless  sprite. 


With  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a-year, 
Do  you  complain,  you  can  not  bear 

An  ill,  you  may  so  soon  retrieve  ? 
G-ood  Alard,  faith,  is  modester 

By  much,  than  you  believe. 

Lend  him  but  fifty  louis-d'or ; 
And  you  shall  never  see  him  more : 

Take  the  advice ;  probatum  est. 
Why  do  the  gods  indulge  our  store, 

But  to  secure  our  rest  ? 


ON    BISHOP    ATTERBURY. 

Meek  Francis  lies  here,  friend :  without  stop  or  stay, 
As  you  value  your  peace,  make  the  best  of  your  way. 
Though  a*  present  arrested  by  death's  caitiff  paw, 
If  he  stirs,  he  may  still  have  recourse  to  the  law. 
And  in  the  King's  Bench  should  a  verdict  be  found, 
That  by  livery  and  seisin  his  grave  is  his  ground, 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  537 

He  will  claim  to  himself  what  is  strictly  his  due, 
And  an  action  of  trespass  will  straightway  ensue, 
That  you  without  right  on  his  premises  tread, 
On  a  simple  surmise  that  the  owner  is  dead. 


FORMA    BONUM    FRAGILE. 

What  a  frail  tiling  is  beauty  !  says  baron  Le  Cras, 
Perceiving  his  mistress  had  one  eye  of  glass : 

And  scarcely  had  he  spoke  it, 
When  she  more  confus'd  as  more  angry  she  grew, 
By  a  negligent  rage  prov'd  the  maxim  too  true : 

She  dropt  the  eye,  and  broke  it. 


EARNING-    A    DINNER. 

Full  oft  doth  Mat.  with  Topaz  dine, 
Eateth  baked  meats,  drinketh  Greek  wine  ; 
But  Topaz  his  own  werke  rehearseth ; 
And  Mat.  mote  praise  what  Topaz  verseth. 
Now  sure  as  priest  did  e'er  shrive  sinner, 
Full  hardly  earneth  Mat.  his  dinner. 


BIBO    AND    CHARON. 

When  Bibo  thought  fit  from  the  world  to  retreat, 
And  full  of  champagne  as  an  egg's  full  of  meat, 
He  waked  in  the  boat ;  and  to  Charon  he  said, 
He  would  be  row'd  back,  for  he  was  not  yet  dead. 
Trim  the  boat,  and  sit  quiet,  stern  Charon  replied  : 
You  may  have  forgot,  you  were  drunk  when  you  died 


THE    PEDANT. 

Lysander  talks  extremely  well ; 
On  any  subject  let  him  dwell, 

His  tropes  and  figures  will  content  ye  ; 
He  should  possess  to  all  degrees 
The  art  of  talk ;  he  practices 

Full  fourteen  hours  in  four-and-twenty. 
28* 


538  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


EPIGRAMS    OF    JOSEPH    ADDISON. 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  MANCHESTER. 

Written  on  his  admission  to  the  Kit-Cat  Club,  in  compliance  with  the  rule  that 
every  new  member  should  name  his  toast,  and  write  a  verse  in  her  praise. 

WHILE  haughty  Grallia's  dames,  that  spread 
O'er  their  pale  cheeks  an  artful  red, 
Beheld  this  beauteous  stranger  there, 
In  nature's  charms  divinely  fair ; 
Confusion  in  their  looks  they  showed, 
And  with  uuborrowed  blushes  glowed. 


TO   AN    ILL-FAVORED    LADY. 
[IMITATED  FROM  MARTIAL.] 

While  in  the  dark  on  thy  soft  hand  I  hung, 
And  heard  the  tempting  syren  in  thy  tongue, 
What  flames,  what  darts,  what  anguish  I  endured  ! 
But  when  the  candle  entered  I  was  cured. 


TO    A    CAPRICIOUS    FRIEND. 
[IMITATED  FROM  MARTIAL.] 

In  all  thy  humors,  whether  grave  or  mellow, 
Thou  'rt  such  a  touchy,  testy,  pleasant  fellow  ; 
Hast  so  much  wit,  and  mirth,  and  spleen  about  thee, 
There  is  no  living  with  thee,  nor  without  thee. 


TO    A    ROGUE. 
[IMITATED  FROM  MARTIAL.] 

Thy  beard  and  head  are  of  a  different  dye : 
Short  of  one  foot,  distorted  in  an  eye  : 
With  all  these  tokens  of  a  knave  complete, 
Should'st  thou  be  honest,  thou  'rt  a  dev'lish  cheat. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  539 


EPIGRAMS    OF   ALEXANDER    POPE, 

ON    MRS.    TOFTS. 

(A   CELEBRATED    OPERA   SINGER.) 

So  bright  is  thy  beauty,  so  charming  thy  song, 

As  had  drawn  both  the  beasts  and  their  Orpheus  along  ; 

But  such  is  thy  avarice,  and  such  is  thy  pride. 

That  the  beasts  must  have  starved,  and  the  poet  have  died. 

TO    A    BLOCKHEAD. 

You  beat  your  pate,  and  fancy  wit  will  come  : 
Knock  as  you  please,  there  's  nobody  at  home. 

THE    POOL    AND    THE    POET. 

Sir,  I  admit  your  general  rule, 
That  every  poet  is  a  fool, 
But  you  yourself  may  serve  to  show  it, 
That  every  fool  is  not  a  poet. 


EPIGRAMS    OF    DEAN    SWIFT, 

ON    BURNING    A    DULL  POEM. 

AN  ass's  hoof  alone  can  hold 

That  poisonous  juice,  which  kills  by  cold. 

Methought  when  I  this  poem  read, 

No  vessel  but  an  ass's  head 

Such  frigid  fustian  could  contain  ; 

I  mean  the  head  without  the  brain. 

The  cold  conceits,  the  chilling  thoughts, 

Went  down  like  stupefying  draughts ; 

I  found  my  head  begin  to  swim, 

A  numbness  crept  through  every  limb. 


540  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

In  haste,  with  imprecations  dire, 

I  threw  the  volume  in  the  fire ; 

When  (who  could  think  ?)  though  cold  as  ice, 

It  burnt  to  ashes  in  a  trice. 

How  could  I  more  enhance  its  fame  ? 
Though  born  in  snow,  it  died  in  flame. 


TO   A   LADY, 

On  hearing  her  praise  her  husband. 

You  always  are  making  a  god  of  your  spouse ; 
But  this  neither  Reason  nor  Conscience  allows ; 
Perhaps  you  will  say,  'tis  in  gratitude  due, 
And  you  adore  him  because  he  adores  you. 
Your  argument 's  weak,  and  so  you  will  find, 
For  you,  by  this  rule,  must  adore  all  mankind. 


THE    CUDGELED    HUSBAND. 

As  Thomas  was  cudgel'd  one  day  by  his  wife, 

He  took  to  his  heels  and  fled  for  his  life : 

Tom's  three  dearest  friends  came  by  in  the  squabble, 

And  saved  him  at  once  from  the  shrew  and  the  rabble  ; 

Then  ventured  to  give  him  some  sober  advice — 

But  Tom  is  a  person  of  honor  so  nice, 

Too  wise  to  take  counsel,  too  proud  to  take  warning, 

That  he  sent  to  all  three  a  challenge  next  morning. 

Three  duels  he  fought,  thrice  ventured  his  life ; 

Went  home,  and  was  cudgeled  again  by  his  wife. 


ON  SEEING  VERSES  WRITTEN  UPON  WINDOWS  AT  INNS. 

The  sage,  who  said  he  should  be  proud 

Of  windows  in  his  breast, 
Because  he  ne'er  a  thought  allow'd 

That  might  not  be  confest ; 
His  window  scrawled  by  every  rake, 

His  breast  again  would  cover, 
And  fairly  bid  the  devil  take 

The  diamond  and  the  lover. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  541 

ON  SEEING  THE  BUSTS  OF  NEWTON,  LOCKE,  AND  OTHERS, 

Placed  by  Queen  Caroline  in  lUchmoud  Hermitage. 

Louis  the  living  learned  fed, 
And  raised  the  scientific  head ; 
Our  frugal  queen,  to  save  her  meat, 
Exalts  the  heads  that  cannot  eat. 

ON    THE   CHURCH'S  DANGER. 

Good  Halifax  and  pious  Wharton  cry, 

The  Church  has  vapors;  there  's  no  danger  nigh. 

In  those  we  love  not,  we  no  danger  see, 

And  were  they  hang'd,  there  would  no  danger  be. 

But  we  must  silent  be,  amid  our  fears, 

And  not  believe  our  senses,  but  the  Peers. 

So  ravishers.  that  know  no  sense  of  shame, 

First  stop  her  mouth,  and  then  debauch  the  dame. 


ON  ONE  DELACOURT'S  COMPLIMENTING  CARTHY  ON  HIS 
POETRY. 

Carthy,  you  say,  writes  well — his  genius  true, 
You  pawn  your  word  for  him — he  '11  vouch  for  you. 
So  two  poor  knaves,  who  find  their  credit  fail, 
To  cheat  the  world,  become  each  other's  bail. 


ON  A  USURER. 

Beneath  this  verdant  hillock  lies, 
Demar,  the  wealthy  and  the  wise. 
His  heirs,  that  he  might  safely  rest, 
Have  put  his  carcass  in  a  chest, 
The  very  chest  in  which,  they  say, 
His  other  self,  his  money  lay. 
And,  if  his  heirs  continue  kind 
To  that  dear  self  he  left  behind, 
I  dare  believe,  that  four  in  five 
Will  think  his  better  half  alive. 


542  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

TO    MRS.    BIDDY    FLOYD: 

OR,  THE  RECEIPT  TO  FORM  A  BEAUTY. 

When  Cupid  did  his  grandsire  Jove  entreat 
To  form  some  Beauty  by  a  new  receipt, 
Jove  sent,  and  found,  far  in  a  country  scene, 
Truth,  innocence,  good  nature,  look  serene : 
From  which  ingredients  first  the  dext'rous  boy 
Pick'd  the  demure,  the  awkward,  and  the  coy. 
The  Graces  from  the  court  did  next  provide 
Breeding,  and  wit,  and  air,  and  decent  pride : 
These  Venus  cleans  from  every  spurious  grain 
Of  nice  coquet,  affected,  pert,  and  vain. 
Jove  mix'd  up  all,  and  the  best  clay  ernploy'd  ; 
Then  call'd  the  happy  composition  FLOYD. 


THE    REVERSE; 

OR,  MRS.  CLUDD. 

Venus  one  day,  as  story  goes, 

But  for  what  reason  no  man  knows, 

In  sullen  mood  and  grave  deport, 

Trudged  it  away  to  Jove's  high  court ; 

And  there  his  G-odship  did  entreat, 

To  look  out  for  his  best  receipt : 

And  make  a  monster  strange  and  odd, 

Abhorr'd  by  man  and  every  god. 

Jove,  ever  kind  to  all  the  fair, 

Nor  e'er  refused  a  lady's  prayer, 

Straight  oped  'scrutoire,  and  forth  he  took 

A  neatly  bound  and  well-gilt  book ; 

Sure  sign  that  nothing  enter'd  there, 

But  what  was  very  choice  and  rare. 

Scarce  had  he  turn'd  a  page  or  two — 

It  might  be  more,  for  aught  I  know ; 

But,  be  the  matter  more  or  less, 

'Mong  friends  't  will  break  no  squares,  I  guess. 

Then,  smiling,  to  the  dame  quoth  he, 

Here  's  one  will  fit  you  to  a  T. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  543 

But,  as  the  writing  doth  prescribe, 
'Tis  fit  the  ingredients  we  provide. 
Away  he  went,  and  search'd  the  stews, 
And  every  street  about  the  Mews  ; 
Diseases,  impudence,  and  lies, 
Are  found  and  brought  him  in  a  trice. 
From  Hackney  then  he  did  provide, 
A  clumsy  air  and  awkward  pride ; 
From  lady's  toilet  next  he  brought 
Noise,  scandal,  and  malicious  thought. 
These  Jove  put  in  an  old  close-stool, 
And  with  them  mix'd  the  vain,  the  fool 

But  now  came  on  his  greatest  care, 
Of  what  he  should  his  paste  prepare ; 
For  common  clay  or  finer  mold 
Was  much  too  good,  such  stuff  to  hold. 
At  last  he  wisely  thought  on  mud  ; 
So  raised  it  up,  and  call'd  it —  Cludd. 
With  this,  the  lady  well  content, 
Low  curtsey 'd,  and  away  she  went. 


THE    PLACE    OF    THE    DAMNED. 

All  folks  who  pretend  to  religion  and  grace, 

Allow  there  's  a  HELL,  but  dispute  of  the  place  : 

But,  if  HELL  may  by  logical  rules  be  defined 

The  place  of  the  damn'd — I  '11  tell  you  my  mind. 

Wherever  the  damn'd  do  chiefly  abound, 

Most  certainly  there  is  HELL  to  be  found : 

Damn'd  poets,  damn'd  critics,  damn'd  blockheads,  damn'd  knaves. 

Damn'd  senators  bribed,  damn'd  prostitute  slaves ; 

Darnn'd  lawyers  and  judges,  damn'd  lords  and  damn'd  squires ; 

Damn'd  spies  and  informers,  damn'd  friends  and  damn'd  liars ; 

Damn'd  villains,  corrupted  in  every  station  ; 

Damn'd  time-serving  priests  all  over  the  nation ; 

And  into  the  bargain  I  '11  readily  give  you 

Damn'd  ignorant  prelates,  and  councillors  privy. 

Then  let  us  no  longer  by  parsons  be  flamm'd, 

For  we  know  by  these  marks  the  place  of  the  damn'd  : 

And  HELL  to  be  sure  is  at  Paris  or  Rome. 

How  happy  for  us  that  it  is  not  at  home  I 


544  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


THE    DAY   OF    JUDGMENT. 

• 

With  a  world  of  thought  oppress'd, 
I  sunk  from  reverie  to  rest. 
A  horrid  vision  seized  my  head, 
I  saw  the  graves  give  up  their  dead  ! 
Jove,  arm'd  with  terrors,  bursts  the  skies, 
And  thunder  roars  and  lightning  flies  ; 
Amazed,  confused,  its  fate  unknown, 
The  world  stands  trembling  at  his  throne ! 
While  each  pale  sinner  hung  his  head, 
Jove,  nodding,  shook  the  heavens,  and  said : 
"  Offending  race  of  human  kind, 
By  nature,  reason,  learning,  blind ; 
You  who,  through  frailty,  stepp'd  aside ; 
And  you,  who  never  fell  from  pride : 
You  who  in  different  sects  were  shamm'd, 
And  come  to  see  each  other  damn'd ; 
(So  some  folk  told  you,  but  they  knew 
No  more  of  Jove's  designs  than  you)  ; 
— The  world's  mad  business  now  is  o'er, 
And  I  resent  these  pranks  no  more. 
— I  to  such  blockheads  set  my  wit ! 
I  damn  such  fools ! — Go,  go,  you  're  bit" 


PAULUS   THE    LAWYER. 

LINDSAY. 

"A  slave  to  crowds,  scorch'd  with  the  summer's  heats, 

In  courts  the  wretched  lawyer  toils  and  sweats ; 

While  smiling  Nature,  in  her  best  attire, 

Regales  each  sense,  and  vernal  joys  inspire. 

Can  he,  who  knows  that  real  good  should  please, 

Barter  for  gold  his  liberty  and  ease  ?" 

This  Paulus  preach'd  : — When,  entering  at  the  door, 

Upon  his  board  the  client  pours  the  ore : 

He  grasps  the  shining  gifts,  pores  o'er  the  cause, 

Forgets  the  sun,  and  dozes  o'er  the  laws. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  545 


EPIGRAMS   BY   THOMAS    SHERIDAN. 

ON     A    CARICATURE. 

IF  you  say  this  was  made  for  friend  Dan,  you  belie  it, 
I  'U  swear  he 's  so  like  it  that  he  was  made  by  it. 


ON  DEAN  SWIFT'S  PROPOSED  HOSPITAL  FOR  LUNATICS. 

Great  wits  to  madness  nearly  are  allied, 

This  makes  the  Dean  for  kindred  thus  provide. 


TO     A     DUBLIN     PUBLISHER. 

Who  displayed  a  bust  of  Dean  Swift  in  his  window,  while  publishing  Lord  Orre 
ry's  offensive  remarks  upon  the  Dean. 

Faulkner  !  for  once  thou  hast  some  judgment  shown, 
By  representing  Swift  transformed  to  stone ; 
For  could  he  thy  ingratitude  have  known, 
Astonishment  itself  the  work  had  done  1 


WHICH    IS    WHICH. 

BYRO: 

"  GOD  bless  the  King !     God  bless  the  faith's  defender ! 
God  bless — no  harm  in  blessing — the  Pretender. 
But  who  that  pretender  is,  and  who  that  king, 
God  bless  us  all,  is  quite  another  tiling." 


ON    SOME    LINES    OF    LOPEZ    DE    YEGA, 

DR.    JOHNSON. 

IF  the  man  who  turnips  cries, 
Cry  not  when  his  father  dies, 
'Tis  a  proof  that  he  had  rather 
Have  a  turnip  than  his  father. 


EPIGRAMMATIC. 


ON  A  FULL-LENGTH  PORTRAIT   OF  BEAU   MARSH. 

Placed  between  the  busts  of  Newtou  and  Pope. 

LORD    CHESTERFIELD 

"  IMMORTAL  Newton  never  spoke 

More  truth  than  here  you  '11  find ; 
Nor  Pope  himself  e'er  penn'd  a  joke 

More  cruel  on  mankind. 

"  The  picture  placed  the  busts  between, 

Gives  satire  all  its  strength ; 
Wis  dom  and  Wit  are  little  seen — 

But  Folly  at  full  length." 


ON   SCOTLAND. 

CLEVELAND. 

"  HAD  Cain  been  Scot,  God  would  have  changed  his  doom; 
Nor  forced  him  wander,  but  confined  him  home." 


EPIGRAMS   OF  PETER  PINDAR. 

EDMUND    BURKE'S   ATTACK    ON    WARREN    HASTINGS. 

POOR  Edmund  sees  poor  Britain's  setting  sun : 
Poor  Edmund  groans — and  Britain  is  undone  ! 

Reader !   thou  hast,  I  do  presume 

(God  knows  though)  been  in  a  snug  room, 
By  coals  or  wood  made  comfortably  warm, 

And  often  fancied  that  a  storm  without, 

Hath  made  a  diabolic  rout — 
Sunk  ships,  tore  trees  up— done  a  world  of  harm. 

Yes,  thou  hast  lifted  up  thy  tearful  eyes, 

Fancying  thou  heardst  of  mariners  the  cries  ; 

And  sigh'd,  "  How  wretched  now  must  thousands  be  I 

Oh !  how  I  pity  the  poor  souls  at  sea  1" 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  547 

When,  lo  !  this  dreadful  tempest,  and  his  roar, 
A  zephyr — in  the  key-hole  of  the  door ! 

Now  may  not  Edmund's  bowlings  be  a  sigh 

Pressing  through  Edmund's  lungs  for  loaves  and  fishes, 

On  which  he  long  hath  looked  with  longing  eye 
To  fill  poor  Edmund's  not  d'erburden'd  dishes  ? 

Give  Mun  a  sup — forgot  will  be  complaint ; 
Britain  be  safe,  and  Hastings  prove  a  saint. 


ON    AN     ARTIST 

Who  boasted  that  his  pictures  had  hung  near  those  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  in  the 
Exhibition. 

A  shabby  fellow  chanc'd  one  day  to  meet 
The  British  Roscius  in  the  street, 

Garrick,  on  whom  our  nation  justly  brags — 
The  fellow  hugg'd  him  with  a  kind  embrace — 
"  Good  sir,  I  do  not  recollect  your  face," 

Quoth  Garrick — "  No !"  replied  the  man  of  rags : 

"  The  boards  of  Drury  you  and  I  have  trod 
Full  many  a  time  together,  I  am  sure — " 
"When?"  with  an  oath,  cried  Garrick— "for  by  G — 
I  never  saw  that  face  of  yours  before ! — 
What  characters,  I  pray, 
Did  you  and  I  together  play  ?" 

"  Lord !"  quoth  the  fellow,  "  think  not  that  I  mock — 
When  you  play'd  Hamlet,  sir — I  play'd  the  cock." 


ON  THE  CONCLUSION  OP  HIS  ODES. 

"Finished/"  a  disappointed  artist  cries, 
With  open  mouth,  and  straining  eyes ; 
Gaping  for  praise  like  a  young  crow  for  meat — 
"  Lord  !  why  have  you  not  mentioned  me  /" 

Mention  thee  ! 

Thy  impudence  hath  put  me  in  a  sweat — 
What  rage  for  fame  attends  both  great  and  small : 
Better  be  d — rid,  than  mention' d  not  at  all ! 


548  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


THE    LEX    TALIONIS   UPON    BENJAMIN    WEST 

West  tells  the  world  that  Peter  can  not  rhyme — 
Peter  declares,  point  blank,  that  West  can' t  paint : 

West  swears  I  've  not  an  atom  of  sublime — 
I  swear  he  hath  no  notion  of  a  saint : 

And  that  his  cross-wing'd  cherubim  are  fowls, 
Baptized  by  naturalists,  owls : 
Half  of  the  meek  apostles,  gangs  of  robbers  ; 
His  angels,  sets  of  brazen-headed  lubbers. 

The  Holy  Scripture  says,  "  All  flesh  is  grass ;" 
With  Mr.  West,  all  flesh  is  brick  and  brass ; 

Except  his  horse-flesh,  that  I  fairly  own 

Is  often  of  the  choicest  Portland  stone. 

I  've  said  it  too,  that  this  artist's  faces 

Ne'er  paid  a  visit  to  the  graces  : 

That  on  expression  he  can  never  brag : 
Yet  for  this  article  hath  he  been  studying, 
But  in  it  never  could  surpass  a  pudding — 

No,  gentle  reader,  nor  a  pudding-bag. 

I  dare  not  say,  that  Mr.  West 

Can  not  sound  criticism  impart : 
I  'm  told  the  man  with  technicals  is  blest, 

That  he  can  talk  a  deal  upon  the  art ; 
Yes,  he  can  talk,  I  do  not  doubt  it — 
"  About  it,  goddess,  and  about  it." 

Thus,  then,  is  Mr.  West  deserving  praise — 

And  let  my  justice  the  fair  laud  afford ; 
For,  lo  !  this  far-fam'd  artist  cuts  both  ways, 

Exactly  like  the  angel  Gabriel's  sword ; 
The  beauties  of  the  art  his  converse  shows, 

His  canvas  almost  ev'ry  thing  that 's  bad ! 
Thus  at  th'  Academy,  we  must  suppose, 

A  man  more  useful  never  could  be  had : 
Who  in  himself,  a  host,  so  much  can  do ; 
Who  is  both  precept  and  example  too ! 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  549 


BARRY'S    ATTACK    UPON    SIR   JOSHUA    REYNOLDS. 

When  Barry  dares  the  President  to  fly  on, 
'Tis  like  a  mouse,  that,  work'd  into  a  rage, 
Daring  some  dreadful  war  to  wage, 

Nibbles  the  tail  of  the  Nemcean  lion. 

Or  like  a  louse,  of  mettle  full, 
Nurs'd  in  some  giant's  skull — 
Because  Goliath  scratch'd  him  as  he  fed, 
Employs  with  vehemence  his  angry  claws, 
And  gaping,  grinning,  formidable  jaws, 
To  carry  off  the  giant's  head  I 


ON    THE    DEATH     OF     MR.    HONE,    R.A 

There 's  one  R.A.  more  dead !  stiff  is  poor  Hone— 

His  works  be  with  him  under  the  same  stone : 

I  think  the  sacred  art  will  not  bemoan  'em ; 

But,  Muse ! — De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum — 

As  to  his  host,  a  traveler,  with  a  sneer, 

Said  of  his  dead  Small-beer. 

Go,  then,  poor  Hone  !  and  join  a  numerous  train 

Sunk  in  Oblivion's  wide  pacific  ocean ; 

And  may  its  whale-Wee  stomach  feel  no  motion 
To  cast  thee,  like  a  Jonah,  up  again. 


ON  GEORGE  THE   THIRD'S  PATRONAGE   OF   BENJAMIN 
WEST. 

Thus  have  I  seen  a  child,  with  smiling  face, 
A  little  daisy  in  the  garden  place, 

And  strut  in  triumph  round  its  fav'hte  flow'r ; 
Gaze  on  the  leaves  with  infant  admiration, 
Thinking  the  flow'r  the  finest  in  the  nation, 

Then  pay  a  visit  to  it  ev'ry  hour : 
Lugging  the  wat'ring-pot  about, 

Which  John  the  gard'ner  was  oblig'd  to  fill  ; 
The  child,  so  pleas'd,  would  pour  the  water  out, 

To  show  its  marvelous  gard'ning  skill ; 


550  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Then  staring  round,  all  wild  for  praises  panting, 
Tell  all  the  world  it  was  its  own  sweet  planting  • 
And  boast  away,  too  happy  elf, 
How  that  it  found  the  daisy  all  itself ! 


ANOTHER  ON    THE    SAME. 

In  simile  if  I  may  shine  agen — 
Thus  have  I  seen  a  fond  old  hen 

With  one  poor  miserable  chick, 
Bustling  about  a  farmer's  yard  ; 
Now  on  the  dunghill  laboring  hard, 

Scraping  away  through  thin  and  thick, 
Flutt'ring  her  feathers — making  such  a 
Cackling  aloud  such  quantities  of  joys, 

As  if  this  chick,  to  which  her  egg  gave  birth, 
Was  born  to  deal  prodigious  knocks, 
To  shine  the  Broughton  of  game  cocks, 

And  kill  the  fowls  of  all  the  earth ! 


EPITAPH  ON  PETER  STAGGS. 

Poor  Peter  Staggs,  now  rests  beneath  this  rail, 

Who  loved  his  joke,  his  pipe,  arid  mug  of  ale  ; 

For  twenty  years  he  did  the  duties  well, 

Of  ostler,  boots,  and  waiter  at  the  "  Bell." 

But  Death  stepp'd  in,  and  order'd  Peter  Staggs 

To  feed  his  worms,  and  leave  the  farmers'  nags. 

The  church  clock  struck  one — alas !  'twas  Peter's  kneL, 

Who  sigh'd,  "  I  'm  coming — that 's  the  ostler's  bell !" 


TRAY'S    EPITAPH. 

Here  rest  the  relics  of  a  friend  below, 

Blest  with  more  sense  than  half  the  folks  I  know  : 

Fond  of  his  ease,  and  to  no  parties  prone, 

He  damn'd  no  sect,  but  calmly  gnaw'd  his  bone  ; 

Perform'd  his  functions  well  in  ev'ry  way — 

Blush,  Christians,  if  you  can,  and  copy  Tiay. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  551 

ON  A  STONE  THROWN  AT  A  VERY  GREAT    MAN,    BUT 
WHICH  MISSED  HIM. 

Talk  no  more  of  the  lucky  escape  of  the  head 

From  a  flint  so  unluckily  thrown — 
I  think  very  different,  with  thousands  indeed, 

'T  was  a  lucky  escape  for  the  stone. 


[The  following  shuiza,  on  the  death  of  Lady  Mount  E 's  favorite  pig  Cupid,  is 

verily  exceeded  by  nothing  in  the  annals  of  impertinence. — P.  P.] 

A    CONSOLATORY    STANZA 

TO    LADY   MOUNT    E ,    ON    THE    DEATFI    OK   HER    PIG    CUPID. 

0  dry  that  tear,  so  round  and  big, 
Nor  waste  in  sighs  your  precious  wind  ! 

Death  only  takes  a  single  pig — 
Your  lord  and  son  are  still  behind. 


EPIGRAMS    BY    ROBERT    BURNS. 

THE    POET'S    CHOICE. 

I  MURDER  hate,  by  field  or  flood, 

Though  glory's  name  may  screen  us ; 

In  wars  at  harne  I  '11  spend  my  blood, 
Life-giving  wars  of  Venus. 

The  deities  that  I  adore, 

Are  social  peace  and  plenty  ; 
I  'm  better  pleased  to  make  one  more, 

Than  be  the  death  of  twenty. 

ON  A  OELEBRATED  RULING  ELDER. 

Here  souter  Hood  in  death  does  sleep  ; — 

To  h— 11,  if  he 's  gane  thither, 
Satan,  gie  him  thy  gear  to  keep, 

He  '11  haud  it  weel  thegither. 


552  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

ON    JOHN    DOVE 

INNKEEPER    OF    MAUCULINE. 

Here  lies  Johnny  Pidgeon ; 
What  was  his  religion  ? 
Wha  e'er  desires  to  ken, 
To  some  other  warl' 
Maun  follow  the  carl, 

For  here  Johnny  Pidgeou  had  nane  1 

Strong  ale  was  ablution — 
Small  beer,  persecution, 

A  dram  was  memento  mori : 
But  a  full  flowing  bowl 
Was  the  saving  'his  soul, 

And  port  was  celestial  glory. 

ON    ANDREW    TURNER. 

In  se'enteen  hunder  an'  forty-nine, 
Satan  took  stuff  to  mak'  a  swine, 

And  cuist  it  in  a  corner ; 
But  wilily  he  chang'd  his  plan, 
And  shaped  it  something  like  a  man, 

And  ca'd  it  Andrew  Turner. 


ON    A    SCOTCH    COXCOMB. 

Light  lay  the  earth  on  Billy's  breast, 
His  chicken  heart  so  tender ; 

But  build  a  castle  on  his  head, 
His  skull  will  prop  it  under. 


ON    GRIZZEL    GRIM. 

Here  lies  with  death  auld  Grizzel  Grim, 

Lincluden's  ugly  witch ; 
O  death,  how  horrid  is  thy  taste, 

To  lie  with  such  a  b ! 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  553 


ON    A    WAG    IN    MAUCHLINE. 

Lament  him,  Mauchline  husbands  a', 

He  aften  did  assist  ye ; 
For  had  ye  stayed  whole  years  awa, 

•Your  wives  they  ne'er  had  missed  ye. 
Ye  Mauchline  bairns,  as  on  ye  pass 

To  school  in  bands  thegither, 
0  tread  ye  lightly  on  liis  grass — 

Perhaps  he  was  your  father. 


EPITAPH    ON    W . 

Stop,  thief!  dame  Nature  cried  to  Death, 
As  Willie  drew  his  latest  breath  ; 
You  have  my  choicest  model  ta'en ; 
How  shall  I  make  a  fool  again  ? 


ON    A    SUICIDE. 

Earth' d  up  here  lies  an  imp  o'  hell, 
Planted  by  Satan's  dibble — 

Poor  silly  wretch,  he  's  damn'd  himsel' 
To  save  the  Lord  the  trouble. 


EPIGRAMS  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  LESSING. 

NIGER. 

"  HE  's  gone  at  last — old  Niger's  dead !" 
Last  night 't  was  said  throughout  the  city ; 

Each  quidnunc  gravely  shook  his  head, 
And  half  the  town  cried,  "  What  a  pity  !" 

The  news  proved  false — 't  was  all  a  cheat — 

The  morning  came  the  fact  denying ; 
And  all  the  town  to-day  repeat 

What  half  the  town  last  night  was  crying. 
24 


554  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

A  NICE    POINT. 

Say  which  enjoys  the  greater  blisses, 
John,  who  Dorinda's  picture  kisses, 
Or  Tom,  his  friend,  the  favor'd  elf, 
Who  kisses  fair  Dorinda's  self  ? 
Faith,  'tis  not  easy  to  divine, 
While  both  are  thus  with  raptures  fainting. 
To  which  the  balance  should  incline, 
Since  Tom  and  John  both  kiss  a  painting. 

THE    POINT    DECIDED. 

Nay,  surely  John's  the  happier  of  the  twain, 
Because — the  picture  can  not  kiss  again  ! 


TRUE    NOBILITY. 

Young  Stirps  as  any  lord  is  proud, 
Vain,  haughty,  insolent,  and  loud, 
Games,  drinks,  and  in  the  full  career 
Of  vice,  may  vie  with  any  peer ; 
Seduces  daughters,  wives,  and  mothers. 
Spends  his  own  cash,  and  that  of  others, 
Pays  like  a  lord — that  is  to  say, 
lie  never  condescends  to  pay, 
But  bangs  his  creditor  in  requital — 
And  yet  this  blockhead  wants  a  title  ! 


TO    A    LIAR. 

Lie  as  long  as  you  will,  my  fine  fellow,  believe  me, 
Your  rhodomontading  will  never  deceive  me ; 
Though  you  took  me  in  then,  I  confess,  my  good  youth, 
When  moved  by  caprice  you  once  told  me  the  truth. 


MENDAX. 

See  yonder  goes  old  Mendax,  telling  lies 
To  that  good  easy  man  with  whom  he 's  walking ; 
How  know  I  that  ?  you  ask,  with  some  surprise ; 
Why,  don't  you  see,  my  friend,  the  fellow's  talking. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  555 


THE    BAD    WIFE. 

tiavans  have  decided,  that  search  the  globe  round, 
One  only  bad  wife  in  the  world  can  be  found ; 
The  worst  of  it  is,  as  her  name  is  not  known, 
Not  a  husband  but  swears  that  bad  wife  is  his  own. 


THE   DEAD    MISER. 

From  the  grave  where  dead  G-ripeall,  the  miser,  reposes, 
What  a  villainous  odor  invades  all  our  noses ! 
It  can't  be  his  body  alone — in  the  hole 
They  have  certainly  buried  the  usurer's  soul. 


ON  FELL. 

While  Fell  was  reposing  himself  on  the  hay, 

A  reptile  conceal' d  bit  his  leg  as  he  lay ; 

But  all  venom  himself,  of  the  wound  he  made  light, 

And  got  well,  while  the  scorpion  died  of  the  bite. 


THE    BAD    ORATOR. 

So  vile  your  grimace,  and  so  croaking  your  speech, 
One  scarcely  can  tell  if  you  're  laughing  or  crying ; 

Were  you  fix'd  on  one's  funeral  sermon  to  preach, 
The  bare  apprehension  would  keep  one  from  dying. 


THE    WISE    CHILD. 

How  plain  your  little  darling  says  "  Mamma," 
But  still  she  calls  you  "  Doctor,"  not  "  Papa." 
One  thing  is  clear :  your  conscientious  rib 
Has  not  yet  taught  the  pretty  dear  to  fib. 


SPECIMEN  OF  THE  LACONIC. 

"  Be  less  prolix,"  says  Grill.     I  like  advice — 

"  Grill,  you  're  an  ass !"     Nov  surely  that 's  concise 


556  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


CUPID  AND  MERCURY,  OR  THE  BARGAIN. 

Sly  Cupid  late  with  Maia's  son 

Agreed  to  live  as  friend  and  brother  j 

In  proof,  his  bow  and  shafts  the  one 

Chang' d  for  the  well-fill' d  purse  of  t'  other. 

And  now,  the  transfer  duly  made, 

Together  through  the  world  they  rove ; 

The  thieving  god  in  arms  array'd, 
And  gold  the  panoply  of  love  1 


FRITZ. 

Quoth  gallant  Fritz,  "  I  ran  away 
To  fight  again  another  day." 
The  meaning  of  his  speech  is  plain, 
He  only  fled  to  fly  again. 


ON   DORILIS. 

That  Dorilis  thus,  on  her  lap  as  he  lies, 

Should  kiss  little  Pompey,  excites  no  surprise ; 

But  the  lapdog  whom  thus  she  keeps  fondling  and  praising, 

Licks  her  face  in  return — that  I  own  is  amazing ! 


TO   A   SLOW   "WALKER    AND    QUICK    EATER. 

So  slowly  you  walk,  and  so  quickly  you  eat, 

You  should  march  with  your  mouth,  and  devour  with  your  feet 


ON   TWO    BEAUTIFUL   ONE-EYED    SISTERS. 

Give  up  one  eye,  and  make  your  sister's  two, 
Venus  she  then  would  be,  and  Cupid  you. 


THE  PER-CONTRA,  OR  MATRIMONIAL  BALANCE. 

How  strange,  a  deaf  wife  to  prefer! 
True,  but  she 's  also  dumb,  good  sir. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  557 

EPIGRAMS    S.T.COLERIDGE. 

AN    EXPECTORATION, 
Or  Splenetic  Extempore,  on  my  joyful  departure  from  the  city  of  Cologno. 

As  I  am  rhymer, 
And  now,  at  least,  a  merry  one, 

Mr.  Mum's  Rudesheimer, 
And  the  church  of  St.  Geryon, 
Are  the  two  things  alone, 
That  deserve  to  be  known, 
In  the  body-and-soul-stinking  town  of  Cologne. 

EXPECTORATION  THE   SECOND. 

In  Clon,  the  town  of  monks  and  bones, 

And  pavements  fanged  with  murderous  stones, 

And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches, 

I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 

All  well  defined  and  separate  stinks ! 

Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne. 

But  tell  me,  nymphs,  what  power  divine 

Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 

TO    A    LADY, 
Offended  by  a  sportive  observation  that  women  have  no  souls. 

Nay,  dearest  Anna,  why  so  grave  ? 
I  said  you  had  no  soul,  'tis  true, 
For  what  you  are  you  can  not  have  ; 
'Tis  /  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  you. 

AVARO. 
[STOLEN  FROM  LESSING.] 

There  comes  from  old  Avaro's  grave 
A  deadly  stench—  why  sure  they  have 
Immured  his  soul  within  his  grave. 


558  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

BEELZEBUB    AND    JOB. 

Sly  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 

To  try  Job's  constancy  and  patience. 

He  took  his  honor,  took  his  health, 

He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth, 

His  servants,  oxen,  horses,  cows — 

But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil, 

And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  predetermined  to  restore 

Twofold  all  he  had  before ; 

His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse  1 


SENTIMENTAL. 

The  rose  that  blushes  like  the  morn, 

Bedecks  the  valleys  low : 
And  so  dost  thou,  sweet  infant  corn, 

My  Angelina's  toe. 

But  on  the  rose  there  grows  a  thorn, 
That  breeds  disastrous  woe : 

And  so  dost  thou,  remorseless  corn, 
On  Angelina's  toe. 


AN  ETERNAL  POEM. 

Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  sir,  it  can  not  fail, 
For  'tis  incomprehensible, 
And  wants  both  head  and  tail. 


BAD    POETS. 

Swans  sing  before  they  die — 't  were  no  bad  thing, 
Did  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  559 


TO  MR.  ALEXANDRE,  THE  VENTRILOQUIST. 

SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 

OF  yore,  in  Old  England,  it  was  not  thought  good, 

To  carry  two  visages  under  one  hood : 

What  should  folks  say  to  you?  who  have  faces  so  plenty, 

That  from  under  one  hood  you  last  night  showed  us  twenty  ! 

Stand  forth,  arch  deceiver,  and  tell  us  in  truth, 

Are  you  handsome  or  ugly,  in  age  or  in  youth  ? 

Man,  woman  or  child — a  dog  or  a  mouse  ? 

Or  are  you,  at  once,  each  live  thing  in  the  house  ? 

Each  live  thing  did  I  ask  ? — each  dead  implement  too, 

A  workshop  in  your  person — saw,  chisel,  and  screw  ! 

Above  all,  are  you  one  individual  ? — I  know 

You  must  be,  at  least,  Alexandre  and  Co. 

But  I  think  you  're  a  troop,  an  assemblage,  a  mob, 

And  that  I,  as  the  sheriff,  should  take  up  the  job : 

And,  instead  of  rehearsing  your  wonders  in  verse, 

Must  read  you  the  riot-act,  and  bid  you  disperse  I 


THE    SWALLOWS. 

R.    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  came  into  Brooke's  one  day,  and  complained  of  cold,  but 
after  drinking  three  glasses  of  brandy  and  water,  said  he  felt  comfortable. 

THE  prince  came  in  and  said  't  was  cold, 

Then  put  to  his  head  the  rummer, 
Till  swallow  after  swallow  came, 

When  he  pronounced  it  summer. 


FRENCH    AND    ENGLISH. 

ERSKINE. 

THE  French  have  taste  in  all  they  do, 

Which  we  are  quite  without  ; 
For  Nature,  that  to  them  gave  gout, 

To  us  gave  only  gout. 


560  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

EPIGRAMS    BY    THOMAS    MOORE. 

TO    SIR    HUDSON    LOWE. 

SIR  Hudson  Lowe,  Sir  Hudson  Low 
(By  name,  and  ah !  by  nature  so), 

As  thou  art  fond  of  persecutions, 
Perhaps  thou  'st  read,  or  heard  repeated, 
How  Captain  Gulliver  was  treated, 

When  thrown  among  the  Lilliputians. 

They  tied  him  down — these  little  men  did — 
And  having  valiantly  ascended 

Upon  the  Mighty  Man's  protuberance, 
They  did  so  strut ! — upon  my  soul, 
It  must  have  been  extremely  droll 

To  see  their  pigmy  pride's  exuberance  ! 

And  how  the  doughty  mannikins 
Amused  themselves  with  sticking  pins 

And  needles  in  the  great  man's  breeches ; 
And  how  some  very  little  things, 
That  pass'd  for  Lords,  on  scaffoldings 

Got  up  and  worried  him  with  speeches. 

Alas !  alas !  that  it  should  happen 

To  mighty  men  to  be  caught  napping ! — 

Though  different,  too,  these  persecutions  ; 
For  Gulliver,  there,  took  the  nap, 
While,  here,  the  Nap,  oh  sad  mishap, 

Is  taken  by  the  Lilliputians  ! 

DIALOGUE 

BETWEEN   A   CATHOLIC    DELEGATE   AND   HIS    ROYAL   HIGHNESS   THE 
DUKE    OF    CUMBERLAND. 

Said  his  Highness  to  NED,  with  that  grim  face  of  his, 
:t  Why  refuse  us  the  Veto,  dear  Catholic  NEDDY  ?"— 

"  Because,  sir,"  said  NED,  looking  full  in  his  phiz, 

"You're  forbidding  enough,  in  all  conscience,  already!" 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  561 

TO    MISS    -      — . 

With  woman's  form  and  woman's  tricks 
So  much  of  man  you  seein  to  mix, 

One  knows  not  where  to  take  you ; 
I  pray  you,  if  'tis  not  too  far, 
Go,  ask  of  Natur.6  which  you  are, 

Or  what  she  meant  to  make  you. 

Yet  stay — you  need  not  take  the  pains — 
With  neither  beauty,  youth,  nor  brains, 

For  man  or  maid's  desiring : 
Pert  as  female,  fool  as  male, 
As  boy  too  green,  as  girl  too  stale-  ••- 

The  thing 's  not  worth  inquiring ! 


TO 


Die  when  you  will,  you  need  not  wear 
At  heaven's  court  a  form  more  fair 

Than  Beauty  here'on  earth  has  given  ; 
Keep  but  the  lovely  looks  we  see — 
The  voice  we  hear  and  you  will  be 

An  angel  ready-made  for  heaven ! 


UPON  BEING  OBLIGED  TO  LEAVE  A  PLEASANT  PARTY, 

FROM  THE  WANT  OF  A  PAIR  OF  BREECHES  TO  DRESS  FOR  DINNER  IN. 

Between  Adam  and  me  the  great  difference  is, 
Though  a  paradise  each  has  been  forced  to  resign, 

That  he  never  wore  breeches  till  turn'd  out  of  his, 

While,  for  want  of  my  breeches,  I  'm.  banish' d  from  mine. 

WHAT'S    MY    THOUGHT    LIKE? 

Quest. — Why  is  a  Pump  like  Viscount  CASTLEREAGII  ? 

Answ. — Because  it  is  a  slender  thing  of  wood, 
That  up  and  down  its  awkward  arm  doth  sway, 
And  coolly  spout,  and  spout,  and  spout  away, 

In  one  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood ! 
24* 


562  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


FROM    THE    FRENCH. 

Of  all  the  men  one  meets  about, 

There  's  none  like  Jack — he  's  everywhere : 
At  church — park — auction — dinner — rout — 

Go  when  and  where  you  will,  he 's  there. 
Try  the  West  End,  he 's  at  your  back — 

Meets  you,  like  Eurus,  in  the  East — 
You  're  call'd  upon  for  "  How  do,  Jack  ?" 

One  hundred  times  a-day,  at  least 
A  friend  of  his  one  evening  said, 

As  home  he  took  his  pensive  way, 
"  Upon  my  soul,  I  fear  Jack's  dead — 

I  've  seen  him  but  three  times  to-day !" 


A    JOKE    VERSIFIED. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Tom's  father,  "  at  your  time  of  life, 
There 's  no  longer  excuse  for  thus  playing  the  rake — 

It  is  time  you  should  think,  boy,  of  taking  a  wife." — 
"  Why,  so  it  is,  father — whose  wife  shall  I  take  ?" 


THE    SURPRISE. 

Chloris,  I  swear,  by  all  I  ever  swore, 

That  from  this  hour  I  shall  not  love  thee  more. — 
"  What !  love  no  more  ?  Oh  !  why  this  alter'd  vow  ?" 
Because  I  can  not  love  thee  more — than  now  ! 


ON 


Like  a  snuffers,  this  loving  old  dame, 
By  a  destiny  grievous  enough, 

Though  so  oft  she  has  snapp'd  at  the  flame, 
Hath  never  more  than  the  snuff. 


ON    A    SQUINTING    POETESS. 

To  no  one  Muse  does  she  her  glance  confine, 
But  has  an  eye,  at  once,  to  all  the  nine  ! 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  563 


ON    A    TUFT-HUNTER. 

Lament,  lament,  Sir  Isaac  Heard, 

Put  mourning  round  thy  page,  Debrett, 

For  here  lies  one,  who  ne'er  preferr'd 
A  Viscount  to  a  Marquis  yet. 

Beside  his  place  the  God  of  Wit, 

Before  him  Beauty's  rosiest  girls, 
Apollo  for  a  star  he  'd  quit, 

And  Love's  own  sister  for  an  Earl's. 

Did  niggard  fate  no  peers  afford, 

He  took,  of  course,  to  peers'  relations  ; 

And,  rather  than  not  sport  a  lord, 
Put  up  with  even  the  last  creations. 

Even  Irish  names,  could  he  but  tag  'em 

With  "  Lord"  and  "  Duke,"  were  sweet  to  call, 

And,  at  a  pinch,  Lord  Ballyraggum 
Was  better  than  no  Lord  at  all. 

Heaven  grant  him  now  some  noble  nook, 

For,  rest  his  soul,  he  'd  rather  be 
Genteelly  damn'd  beside  a  Duke, 

Than  saved  in  vulgar  company. 


THE    KISS. 

Give  me,  my  love,  that  billing  kiss 

I  taught  you  one  delicious  night, 
When,  turning  epicures  in  bliss, 

We  tried  inventions  of  delight. 

Come,  gently  steal  my  lips  along, 

And  let  your  lips  in  murmurs  move — 

Ah,  no  1 — again — that  kiss  was  wrong — 
How  can  you  be  so  dull,  my  love  ? 

"  Cease,  cease  !"  the  bluahing  girl  replied — 
And  in  her  milky  arms  she  caught  me — 

"How  can  you  thus  your  pupil  chide  ; 
You  know  't  ivas  in  the  fork  you  taught  me !' 


564  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

EPITAPH  ON  A  WELL-KNOWN  POET— (ROBERT 
SOUTHEY.) 

Beneath  these  poppies  buried  deep, 
The  bones  of  Bob  the  bard  lie  hid ; 

Peace  to  his  manes ;  and  may  he  sleep 
As  soundly  as  his  readers  did  ! 

Through  every  sort  of  verse  meandering, 

Bob  went  without  a  hitch  or  fall, 
Through  Epic,  Sapphic,  Alexandrine, 

To  verse  that  was  no  verse  at  all ; 

Till  fiction  having  done  enough, 

To  make  a  bard  at  least  absurd, 
And  give  his  readers  quantum  suff., 

He  took  to  praising  George  the  Third : 

And  now,  in  virtue  of  his  crown, 

Dooms  us,  poor  whigs,  at  once  to  slaughter ; 

Like  Donellan  of  bad  renown, 

Poisoning  us  all  with  laurel- water. 

And  yet  at  times  some  awkward  qualms  he 

Felt  about  leaving  honor's  track ; 
And  though  he 's  got  a  butt  of  Malmsey, 

It  may  not  save  him  from  a  sack. 

Death,  weary  of  so  dull  a  writer, 

Put  to  his  works  a,  finis  thus. 
Oh  !  may  the  earth  on  him  lie  lighter 

Than  did  his  quartos  upon  us  ! 


WRITTEN    IN  A  YOUNG   LADY'S   COMMON-PLACE   BOOK, 
Called  the  "  Book  of  Follies." 

This  journal  of  folly  's  an  emblem  of  me ; 
But  what  book  shall  we  find  emblematic  of  thee  ? 
Oh !  shall  we  not  say  thou  art  Love's  Duodecimo  ? 
None  can  be  prettier,  few  can  be  less,  you  know. 
Such  a  volume  in  sheets  were  a  volume  of  charms ; 
Or  if  bound,  it  should  only  be  bound  in  our  arms  I  » 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  505 


THE    RABBINICAL   ORIGIN    OF    "WOMEN. 

They  tell  us  that  Woman  was  made  of  a  rib 
Just  pick'd  from  a  corner  so  snug  in  the  side ; 

But  the  Rabbins  swear  to  you  that  this  is  a  fib, 
And  't  was  not  so  at  all  that  the  sex  was  supplied. 

For  old  Adam  was  fashion'd,  the  first  of  his  kind, 
With  a  tail  like  a  monkey,  full  a  yard  and  a  span ; 

And  when  Nature  cut  off  this  appendage  behind, 
Why — then  woman  was  made  of  the  tail  of  the  man. 

If  such  is  the  tie  between  women  and  men, 

The  ninny  who  weds  is  a  pitiful  elf; 
For  he  takes  to  his  tail,  like  an  idiot,  again, 

And  makes  a  most  damnable  ape  of  himself  I 

Y"et,  if  we  may  judge  as  the  fashions  prevail, 
Every  husband  remembers  the  original  plan, 

And,  knowing  his  wife  is  no  more  than  his  tail, 

Why — he  leaves  her  behind  him  as  much  as  he  can. 


ANACREONTIQUE. 

Press  the  grape,  and  let  it  pour 
Around  the  board  its  purple  shower ; 
And  while  the  drops  my  goblet  steep, 
I  '11  think — in  woe  the  clusters  weep. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  my  pouting  vine ! 
Heaven  grant  no  tears  but  tears  of  wine. 
Weep  on ;  and,  as  thy  sorrows  flow, 
I  '11  taste  the  luxury  of  woe  I 


SPECULATION. 

Of  all  speculations  the  market  holds  forth, 
The  best  that  I  know  for  a  lover  of  pelf, 

Is  to  buy up  at  the  price  he  is  worth, 

And  then  sell  him  at  that  which  he  sets  on  himself. 


566  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


ON    BUTLER'S    MONUMENT. 

REV.    SAMUEL    WESLEY. 

WHILE  Butler,  needy  wretch,  was  yet  alive, 

No  generous  patron  would  a  dinner  give. 

See  him,  when  starved  to  death  and  turn'd  to  dust, 

Presented  with  a  monumental  bust. 

The  poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown — 

He  ask'd  for  bread,  and  he  received  a  stone. 


ON   THE   DISAPPOINTMENT   OF   THE   WHIG-   ASSO 
CIATES  OF   THE   PRINCE   REGENT,  AT   NOT 
OBTAINING-  OFFICE. 

CHARLES    LAMB. 

YE  politicians,  tell  me,  pray, 

Why  thus  with  woe  and  care  rent  ? 
This  is  the  worst  that  you  can  say, 
Some  wind  has  blown  the  wig  away, 
And  left  the  Hair  Apparent. 


TO    PROFESSOR    AIREY, 

On  his  marrying  a  beautiful  woman. 

SIDNEY   SMITH. 

AIREY  alone  has  gained  that  double  prize, 
Which  forced  musicians  to  divide  the  crown ; 

His  works  have  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies, 
His  marriage-vows  have  drawn  a  mortal  down. 


ON    LORD    DUDLEY    AND    WARD. 

SAMUEL   ROGERS. 

"  THEY  say  Ward  has  no  heart,  but  I  deny  it ; 
He  has  a  heart — and  gets  his  speeches  by  its" 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  567 


EPIGRAMS    OF    LORD    BYRON. 

TO    THE    AUTHOR    OF    A    SONNET    BEGINNING 

"  '  BAD  IS  MY  VEE8E,1  YOU  SAY,  'AND  YET  NO  TEAK.'  " 

THY  verse  is  "  sad"  enough,  no  doubt, 
A  devilish  deal  more  sad  than  witty ! 

Why  should  we  weep,  I  can't  find  out, 
Unless  for  thee  we  weep  in  pity. 

Yet  there  is  one  I  pity  more, 

And  much,  alas !  I  think  he  needs  it — 

For  he,  I  'm  sure,  will  suffer  sore, 

Who,  to  his  own  misfortune,  reads  it. 

The  rhymes,  without  the  aid  of  magic, 
May  once  be  read — but  never  after ; 

Yet  their  effect 's  by  no  means  tragic, 
Although  by  far  too  dull  for  laughter. 

But  would  you  make  our  bosoms  bleed, 
And  of  no  common  pang  complain  ? 

If  you  would  make  us  weep  indeed, 
Tell  us  you  '11  read  them  o'er  again. 


WINDSOR    POETICS. 

On  the  Prince  Regent  being  seen  standing  between  the  coffins  of  Henry  VIII.  and 
Charles  L,  in  the  royal  vault  at  Windsor. 

Famed  for  contemptuous  breach  of  sacred  ties, 
By  headless  Charles  see  heartless  Henry  lies ; 
Between  them  stands  another  sceptered  thing — 
It  moves,  it  reigns — in  all  but  name,  a  king ; 
Charles  to  his  people,  Henry  to  his  wife, 
— In  him  the  double  tyrant  starts  to  life  ; 
Justice  and  death  have  mixed  their  dust  in  vain, 
Each  royal  vampyre  wakes  to  life  again. 
Ah !  what  can  tombs  avail,  since  these  disgorge 
The  blood  and  dust  of  both  to  mold  a  George  ? 


568  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


ON   A    CARRIER    WHO    DIED    OF    DRUNKENNESS. 

John  Adams  lies  here,  of  the  parish  of  Southwell, 
A  carrier  who  carried  his  can  to  his  mouth  well ; 
He  carried  so  much,  and  he  carried  so  fast, 
He  could  carry  no  more — so  was  carried  at  last; 
For  the  liquor  he  drank,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  off — so  he 's  now  carrion. 


EPIGRAMS   OF   BARHAM. 

ON  THE  WINDOWS  OP  KING'S  COLLEGE  REMAINING 
BOARDED. 

Loquitur  Discipulus  Esuriens. 

PROFESSORS,  in  your  plan  there  seems 

A  something  not  quite  right : 
'Tis  queer  to  cherish  learning's  beams 

By  shutting  out  the  light. 

While  thus  we  see  your  windows  block'd, 

If  nobody  complains ; 
Yet  everybody  must  be  shock'd, 

To  see  you  don't  take  pains. 

And  tell  me  why  should  bodily 

Succumb  to  mental  meat  ? 
Or  why  should  rjra,  (3i}ra,  TTI, 

Be  all  the  pie  we  eat  ? 

No  hettuo  librorum  I, 

No  literary  glutton, 
Would  veal  with  Virgil  like  to  try, 

With  metaphysics,  mutton. 

Leave  us  no  longer  in  the  lurch, 

With  Romans,  Greeks,  and  Hindoos : 

But  give  us  beef  instead  of  birch, 
And  board  us — not  your  windows. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  569 

NEW-MADE    HONOR. 
[IMITATED  FROM  MARTIAL.] 

A  friend  I  met,  some  half  hour  since — 

"Good-morrow  Jack!"  quoth  I; 
The  new-made  Knight,  like  any  Prince, 

Frown'd,  nodded,  and  pass'd  by ; 
When  up  came  Jem — "/Sir  John,  your  slave  /" 

"  Ah,  James ;  we  dine  at  eight — 
Fail  not — (low  bows  the  supple  knave) 

Don't  make  my  lady  wait." 
The  king  can  do  no  wrong  ?     As  I  'm  a  sinner, 
He 's  spoilt  an  honest  tradesman  and  my  dinner. 

EHEU    FUGACES. 

What  Horace  says  is, 

Eheu  fugaces 

Anni  labunter,  Postume,  Postume  I 

Years  glide  away,  and  are  lost  to  me,  lost  to  me ! 

Now,  when  the  folks  in  the  dance  sport  their  merry  toes, 

Taglionis,  and  Ellslers,  Duvernays  and  Ceritos, 

Sighing,  I  murmur,  "0  mihi  prceteritos  /" 


ANONYMOUS    EPIGRAMS. 

ON  A  PALE  LADY  WITH  A  RED-NOSED  HUSBAND. 

WHENCE  comes  it  that,  in  Clara's  face, 

The  lily  only  has  its  place  ? 

Is  it  because  the  absent  rose 

Has  gone  to  paint  her  husband's  nose  ? 

UPON    POPE'S    TRANSLATION    OF    HOMER 

So  much,  dear  Pope,  thy  English  Homer  charms, 
As  pity  melts  us,  or  as  passion  warms, 
That  after  ages  will  with  wonder  seek 
Who  't  was  translated  Homer  into  Greek. 


570  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

RECIPE    FOR    A    MODERN    BONNET. 

Two  scraps  of  foundation,  some  fragments  of  lace, 
A  shower  of  French  rose-buds  to  droop  o'er  the  face  ; 
Fine  ribbons  and  feathers,  with  crage  and  illusions, 
Then  mix  and  derange  therein  graceful  confusion ; 
Inveigle  some  fairy,  out  roaming  for  pleasure, 
And  beg  the  slight  favor  of  taking  her  measure, 
The  length  and  the  breadth  of  her  dear  little  pate, 
And  hasten  a  miniature  frame  to  create ; 
Then  pour,  as  above,  the  bright  mixture  upon  it> 
And  lo  !  you  possess  "such  a  love  of  a  bonnet  I" 


MY    WIFE    AND    I 

As  my  wife  and  I,  at  the  window  one  day, 

Stood  watching  a  man  with  a  monkey, 
A  cart  came  by,  with  a  "  broth  of  a  boy," 

Who  was  driving  a  stout  little  donkey. 
To  my  wife  I  then  spoke,  by  way  of  a  joke, 

"  There  's  a  relation  of  yours  in  that  carriage." 
To  which  she  replied,  as  the  donkey  she  spied, 

"  Ah,  yes,  a  relation — by  marriage  /" 


ON    TWO    GENTLEMEN, 

One  of  whom,  O'Connell,  delayed  a  duel  on  the  plea  of  his  wife's  illness;  the 
other  declined  on  account  of  the  illness  of  his  daughter. 

Some  men,  with  a  horror  of  slaughter, 
Improve  on  the  Scripture  command, 
And  honor  then-  wife  and  their  daughter, 
That  their  days  may  be  long  in  the  land. 


WELLINGTON'S   NOSE. 

"  Pray,  why  does  the  great  Captain's  nose 
Resemble  Venice  ?"  Duncomb  cries. 

"  Why,"  quoth  Sam  Rogers,  "  I  suppose. 
Because  it  has  a  bridge  of  size  (sighs)." 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  571 

THE    SMOKER. 

All  dainty  meats  I  do  defy 

Which  feed  men  fat  as  swine, 
He  is  a  frugal  man  indeed 

That  on  a  leaf  can  dine ! 
He  needs  no  napkin  for  his  hands, 

His  finger's  ends  to  wipe, 
That  keeps  his  kitchen  in  a  box, 

And  roast  meat  in  his  pipe  1 

AN    ESSAY    ON    THE    UNDERSTANDING. 

"  Harry,  I  can  not  think,"  says  Dick, 
"  What  makes  my  ankles  grow  so  thick :" 
"  You  do  not  recollect,"  says  Harry, 
"  How  great  a  calf  they  have  to  carry." 

TO    A   LIVING   AUTIIOR. 

Your  comedy  I  Ve  read,  my  friend, 

And  like  the  half  you  pilfer' d  best ; 
But  sure  the  piece  you  yet  may  mend  : 

Take  courage,  man !  and  steal  the  rest. 


EPIGRAMS    BY    THOMAS    HOOD. 

ON     THE     ART-UNIONS. 

THAT  picture-raffles  will  conduce  to  nourish 
Design,  or  cause  good  coloring  to  flourish, 
Admits  of  logic-chopping  and  wise  sawing, 
But  surely  lotteries  encourage  drawing. 

THE    SUPERIORITY     OF    MACHINERY. 

A  mechanic  his  labor  will  often  discard 

If  the  rate  of  his  pay  he  dislikes  : 
But  a  clock — and  its  case  is  uncommonly  hard — 

Will  continue  to  work  though  it  strikes. 


572  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


EPIGRAMS    BY    W.    SAVAGE    LANDOR, 

ON    OBSERVING    A  VULGAR   NAME    ON    THE    PLINTH 

OF   AN    ANCIENT    STATUE. 

BARBARIANS  must  we  always  be  ? 

Wild  hunters  in  pursuit  of  fame  ? 

Must  there  be  nowhere  stone  or  tree 

Ungashed  with  some  ignoble  name. 
0  Venus !  in  thy  Tuscan  dome 

May  every  god  watch  over  thee ! 
Apollo !  bend  thy  bow  o'er  Rome, 

And  guard  thy  sister's  chastity. 
Let  Britons  paint  their  bodies  blue 

As  formerly,  but  touch  not  you. 


LYING    IN    STATE. 

Now  from  the  chamber  all  are  gone 
Who  gazed  and  wept  o'er  Wellington  ; 
Derby  and  Dis  do  all  they  can 
To  emulate  so  great  a  man : 
If  neither  can  be  quite  so  great, 
Resolved  is  each  to  LIE  in  state. 


EPIGRAMS    FROM    PUNCH. 

THE    CAUSE. 

LISETTE  has  lost  her  wanton  wiles — 
What  secret  care  consumes  her  youth, 

And  circumscribes  her  smiles  ? — 
A  speck  on  a  front  tooth  ? 

IRISH    PARTICULAR. 

Shiel's  oratory 's  like  bottled  Dublin  stout — 
For,  draw  the  cork,  and  only  froth  comes  out 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  673 


ONE    GOOD     TURN    DESERVES    ANOTHER 

A  poor  man  went  to  hang  himself, 

But  treasure  chanced  to  find : 
He  pocketed  the  miser's  pell' 

And  left  the  rope  behind. 

His  money  gone,  the  miser  hung 

Himself  in  sheer  despair  : 
Thus  each  the  other's  wants  supplied, 

And  that  was  surely  fair. 


STICKY. 

I  'm  going  to  seal  a  letter,  Dick, 
Some  wax  pray  give  to  me. 

I  have  not  got  a  single  stick, 
Or  whacks  I  'd  give  to  thec. 


THE     POET     FOILED. 

To  win  the  maid  the  poet  tries, 
And  sometimes  writes  to  Julia's  eyes ; — 
She  likes  a  verse — but,  cruel  whim, 
She  still  appears  a-verse  to  him. 


BLACK    AND     WHITE. 

The  Tories  vow  the  Whigs  are  black  as  night, 
And  boast  that  they  are  only  blessed  with  light. 
Peel's  politics  to  both  sides  so  incline, 
His  may  be  called  the  equinoctial  line. 


INQUEST— NOT    EXTRAORDINARY. 

Great  Bulwer's  works  fell  on  Miss  Basbleu's  head, 
And,  in  a  moment,  lo !  the  maid  was  dead  ! 
A  jury  sat,  and  found  the  verdict  plain — 
She  died  of  milk  and  water  on  the  brain. 


574  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


DOMESTIC     ECONOMY. 

Said  Stiggins  to  his  wife,  one  day, 
"  We've  nothing  left  to  eat; 

If  tilings  go  on  in  this  queer  way, 
We  shan't  make  both  ends  meet." 

The  dame  replied,  in  words  discreet, 
"  We  're  not  so  badly  fed, 

If  we  can  make  but  one  end  meat, 
And  make  the  other  bread'1 


ON    SEEING    AN    EXECUTION. 

One  morn,  two  friends  before  the  Newgate  drop, 
To  see  a  culprit  throttled,  chanced  to  stop : 
"  Alas !"  cried  one,  as  round  in  air  he  spun, 
"  That  miserable  wretch's  race  is  run" 
"  True,"  said  the  other,  drily,  "  to  his  cost, 
The  race  is  run — but,  by  a  neck  'tis  lost." 


A    VOICE,    AND    NOTHING    ELSE. 

"  I  wonder  if  Brougham  thinks  as  much  as  he  talks,' 

Said  a  punster,  perusing  a  trial : 
"  I  vow,  since  his  lordship  was  made  Baron  Vaux, 

He's  been  Vaux  et  prceterea  niliilT 


THE    AMENDE     HONORABLE. 

Quoth  Will,  "  On  that  young  servant-maid 

My  heart  its  life-string  stakes." 
"  Quite  safe !"  cries  Dick,  "  don't  be  afraid — 

She  pays  for  all  she  breaks." 


THE    CZAR. 

Czar  NICHOLAS  is  so  devout,  they  say, 
His  majesty  does  nothing  else  than  prey. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  575 


BAS    BLPJU. 

Ma'arnsclle  Bas  Bleu,  erudite  virgin, 
With  learned  zeal  is  ever  urging 

The  love  and  reverence  due 
From  modern  men  to  tilings  antique, 
Egyptian,  British,  Roman,  Greek, 

Relic  of  Gaul  or  Jew. 

No  wonder  that,  Ma'arnselle,  the  love 
Due  to  antiquity  to  prove 

And  urge  is  ever  prone  ; 
She  knows  where'er  there  cease  to  be 
Admirers  of  Antiquity, 

She  needs  must  lose  her  own ! 


TO    A    RICH    YOUNG    WIDOW 

I  will  not  ask  if  thou  canst  touch 

The  tuneful  ivory  key  ? 
Those  silent  notes  of  thine  are  such 

As  quite  suffice  for  me. 

I  '11  make  no  question  if  thy  skill 

The  pencil  comprehends, 
Enough  for  me,  love,  if  thou  still 

Canst  draw  thy  dividends ! 


THE    RAILWAY    OF    LIFE. 

Short  was  the  passage  through  this  earthly  vale. 

By  turnpike  roads  when  mortals  used  to  wend , 
But  now  we  travel  by  the  way  of  rail, 

As  soon  again  we  reach  the  journey's  end. 


A    CONJUGAL    CONUNDRUM. 

Which  is  of  greater  value,  prythee,  say, 

The  Bride  or  Bridegroom  ?— must  the  truth  be  told  ? 
Alas,  it  must !     The  Bride  is  given  away — 

The  Bridegroom's  often  regularly  sold. 


576  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


NUMBERS    ALTERED. 

The  lounger  must  oft.  as  he  walks  through  the  streets, 
Be  struck  with  the  grace  of  some  girl  that  he  meets ; 
So  graceful  behind  in  dress — ringlets — all  that — 
But  one  gaze  at  the  front — what  a  horrid  old  cat  I 
You  then  think  of  the  notice  you  've  seen  on  a  door, 
Which  informs  you,  of  "  70  late  24." 


GRAMMAR  FOR  THE  COURT  OF  BERLIN 

His  majesty  you  should  not  say  of  Fritz, 
That  king  is  neuter ;  so  for  His,  use  Its. 


THE    EMPTY    BOTTLE. 

WILLIAM    AYTOUN 

AH,  liberty !  how  like  thou  art 

To  this  large  bottle  lying  here, 
Which  yesterday  from  foreign  mart, 

Came  filled  with  potent  English  beer  I 

A  touch  of  steel — a  hand — a  gush — 

A  pop  that  sounded  far  and  near — 
A  wild  emotion — liquid  rush — 

And  I  had  drunk  that  English  beer ! 

And  what  remains  ? — An  empty  shell ! 

A  lifeless  form  both  sad  and  queer, 
A  temple  where  no  god  doth  dwell — 

The  simple  memory  of  beer ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    DOCTOR    MORRISON. 

BENTLET'S  MISCELLANY. 

WHAT  's  the  news  ? — Why,  they  say  Death  has  killed  Dr.  Morri 
son. 
The  Pill-maker  ?    Yes.     Then  Death  will  be  sorry  soon. 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  67V 

EPIGRAMS    BY    JOHN    G.    SAXE. 

ON   A   RECENT    CLASSIC    CONTROVERSY. 

NAY,  marvel  not  to  see  these  scholars  fight, 

In  brave  disdain  of  certain  scath  and  scar  j 
'Tis  but  the  genuine,  old,  Hellenic  spite, — 

"  When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes  the  tug  of  war  1" 

ANOTHER. 

Quoth  David  to  Daniel — "  Why  is  it  these  scholars 

Abuse  one  another  whenever  they  speak  ?" 
Quoth  Daniel  to  David — it  nat'rally  follers 

Folks  come  to  hard  words  if  they  meddle  with  Greek  1" 

ON    AN    ILL-READ    LAWYER. 

An  idle  attorney  besought  a  brother 

For  "  something  to  read — some  novel  or  other, 

That  was  really  fresh  and  new." 
"  Take  Chitty  I"  replied  his  legal  friend, 
"  There  is  n't  a  book  that  I  could  lend 

Would  prove  more  '  novel'  to  you!" 

ON  AN  UGLY  PERSON  SITTING  FOR  A  DAGUERREOTYPE. 

Here  Nature  in  her  glass — the  wanton  elf — 
Sits  gravely  making  faces  at  herself; 
And  while  she  scans  each  clumsy  feature  o'er, 
Kepeats  the  blunders  that  she  made  before ! 

WOMAN'S    WILL. 

Men  dying  make  their  wills — but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  sad ; 
"Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 
25 


578  EPIGRAMMATIC. 


FAMILY    QUARRELS. 

"  A  fool,"  said  Jeanette,  "  is  a  creature  I  hate !' 
"  But  hating,"  quoth  John,  "  is  immoral ; 

Besides,  my  dear  girl,  it 's  a  terrible  fate 
To  be  found  in  a  family  quarrel !" 


A   REVOLUTIONARY    HERO. 

JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

OLD  JOE  is  gone,  who  saw  hot  Percy  goad 
His  slow  artillery  up  the  Concord  road, 
A  tale  which  grew  in  wonder  year  by  year ; 
As  every  time  he  told  it,  Joe  drew  near 
To  the  main  fight,  till  faded  and  grown  gray, 
The  original  scene  to  bolder  tints  gave  way  ; 
Then  Joe  had  heard  the  foe's  scared  double-quick 
Beat  on  stove  drum  with  one  uncaptured  stick, 
And,  ere  death  came  the  lengthening  tale  to  lop, 
Himself  had  fired,  and  seen  a  red-coat  drop  ; 
Had  Joe  lived  long  enough,  that  scrambling  fight 
Had  squared  more  nearly  to  his  sense  of  right, 
And  vanquished  Perry,  to  complete  the  tale, 
Had  hammered  stone  for  life  in  Concord  jail 


EPIGRAMS    OF    HALPIN 

THE    LAST   RESORT. 

A  DRAMATIST  declared  he  had  got 
So  many  people  in  his  plot, 
That  what  to  do  with  half  he  had 
Was  like  to  drive  him  drama-mad ! 
'  The  hero  and  the  heroine 
Of  course  are  married — very  fine ! 
But  with  the  others,  what  to  do 
Is  more  than  I  can  tell — can  you  ?" 


EPIGRAMMATIC.  579 

His  friend  replied — "Tis  hard  to  say, 
But  yet  I  think  there  is  a  way. 
The  married  couple,  thank  their  stars, 
And  half  the  *  others'  take  the  cars ; 
The  other  half  you  put  on  board 
An  Erie  steamboat — take  my  word, 
They  '11  never  trouble  you  again !" 
The  dramatist  resumed  his  pen. 


FEMININE    ARITHMETIC. 

LAURA. 

On  me  he  shall  ne'er  put  a  ring, 

So,  mamma,  'tis  in  vain  to  take  trouble — 
For  I  was  but  eighteen  in  spring, 

While  his  age  exactly  is  double. 

MAMMA. 

He 's  but  in  his  thirty-sixth  year, 

Tall,  handsome,  good-natured  and  witty, 

And  should  you  refuse  him,  my  dear, 
May  you  die  an  old  maid  without  pity  ! 

LAURA. 

His  figure,  I  grant  you,  will  pass, 

And  at  present  he 's  young  enough  plenty ; 
But  when  I  am  sixty,  alas ! 

Will  not  he  be  a  hundred  and  twenty  ? 


THE    MUSHROOM    HUNT. 

In  early  days,  ere  Common  Sense 

And  Genius  had  in  anger  parted, 
They  made  to  friendship  some  pretense, 

Though  each,  Heaven  knows !  diversely  hearted. 
To  hunt  for  mushrooms  once  they  went, 

Through  nibbled  sheepwalks  straying  onward, 
Sense  with  his  dull  eyes  earthward  bent, 

While  Genius  shot  his  glances  sunward  ! 


580  EPIGRAMMATIC. 

Away  they  go !     On  roll  the  hours, 

And  toward  the  west  the  day-god  edges ; 
See  !  Genius  holds  a  wreath  of  flowers, 

Fresh  culled  from  all  the  neighboring  hedges ! 
Alas !  ere  eve  their  bright  hues  flit, 

While  Common  Sense  (whom  I  so  doat  on  !) 
Thanked  God  "  that  he  had  little  wit," 

And  drank  his  ketchup  with  his  mutton. 


JUPITER    AMANS. 

DEDICATED    TO   VICTOR   HUGO. 

LONDON    LEADER. 

"  LE  PETIT"  call  not  him  who  by  one  act 

Has  turned  old  fable  into  modern  fact. 

Nap  Louis  courted  Europe :  Europe  shied : 

Th'  imperial  purple  was  too  newly  dyed. 

"  I  '11  have  her  though,"  thought  he,  "  by  rape  or  rapine ; 

Jove  nods  sometimes,  but  catch  a  Nap  a  napping ! 

And  now  I  think  of  Jove,  't  was  Jove's  own  fix, 

And  so  I  '11  borrow  one  of  Jove's  own  tricks : 

Old  itching  Palm  I  '11  tickle  with  a  joke, 

And  he  shall  lend  me  England's  decent  cloak." 

'T  was  said  and  done,  and  his  success  was  full ; 

He  won  Europa  with  the  guise  of  Bull ! 


THE    ORATOR'S    EPITAPH. 

LORD    BROUGHAM. 

"  HERE,  reader,  turn  your  weeping  eyes, 

My  fate  a  useful  moral  teaches ; 
The  hole  in  which  my  body  lies 

Would  not  contain  one-half  my  speeches." 


ECCENTRIC  AND  NONDESCRIPT. 


ECCENTRIC   AND   NONDESCRIPT, 


THE  JOVIAL  PRIEST'S  CONFESSION; 


TIME    OF    HENRY   II. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 

I  DEVISE  to  end  my  days — in  a  tavern  drinking, 

May  some  Christian  hold  for  me — the  glass  when  I  am  shrinking, 

That  the  cherubim  may  cry — when  they  see  me  sinking, 

God  be  merciful  to  a  soul — of  this  gentleman's  way  of  thinking. 

A  glass  of  wine  amazingly — enlighteneth  one's  intervals ; 
'Tis  wings  bedewed  with  nectar — that  fly  up  to  supernals ; 
Bottles  cracked  in  taverns — have  much  the  sweeter  kernels, 
Than  the  sups  allowed  to  us — in  the  college  journals. 

Every  one  by  nature  hath — a  mold  which  ho  was  cast  in ; 
I  happen  to  be  one  of  those — who  never  could  write  fasting ; 
By  a  single  little  boy — I  should  be  surpass'd  in 
Writing  so :  I  'd  just  as  lief— be  buried;  tomb'd  and  grass'd  in. 

Every  one  by  nature  hath — a  gift  too,  a  dotation : 
I,  when  I  make  verses — do  get  the  inspiration 
Of  the  very  best  of  wine — that  comes  into  the  nation : 
It  maketh  sermons  to  astound — for  edification. 

Just  as  liquor  floweth  good — floweth  forth  my  lay  so ; 
But  I  must  moreover  eat — or  I  could  not  say  so ; 
Naught  it  availeth  inwardly — should  I  write  all  day  so ; 
But  with  God's  grace  after  meat — I  beat  Ovidius  Naso. 

Neither  is  there  given  to  me — prophetic  animation, 
Unless  when  I  have  eat  and  drank — yea,  ev'n  to  saturation ; 
Then  in  my  upper  story — hath  Bacchus  domination, 
And  Phoebus  rushes  into  me,  and  beggareth  all  relation. 


584  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 


TONIS    AD    RESTO    MARE. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Ana — "  Oft,  Mary,  heave  a  sigh  for  me." 

O  MARE  aeva  si  forme ; 

Forme  ure  tonitru  ; 
larnbicum  as  amandum, 

Olet  Hymen  promptu ; 
Mihi  is  vetas  an  ne  se, 

As  humano  erebi ; 
Olet  mecum  marito  te, 

Or  eta  beta  pi. 

Alas,  piano  more  meretrix, 

Mi  ardor  vel  uno  ; 
Inferiam  ure  artis  base, 

Tolerat  me  urebo. 
Ah  me  ve  ara  silicet, 

Vi  laudu  vimin  thus  ? 
Hiatu  as  arandum  sex — 

Illuc  lonicus. 

Heu  sed  heu  vix  en  imago, 

My  missis  mare  sta ; 
0  cantu  redit  in  mihi 

Hibernas  arida  ? 
A  veri  vafer  heri  si, 

Mihi  resolves  indu : 
Totius  olet  Hymen  cum — 

Accepta  tonitru. 


DIG. 

DEAN    SWIFT. 

Die,  heris  agro  at,  an  da  quar  to  fine  ale, 
Fora  ringat  ure  nos,  an  da  stringat  ure  tale.* 

*  Dick,  here  is  a  groat,  a  quart  o'  fine  ale, 
For  a  ring  at  your  nose,  ami  a  string  at  your  tail. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  585 


MOLL. 

DEAN   SWIFT. 

MOLLIS  abuti, 
Has  an  acuti, 
No  lasso  finis, 
Molli  divinis.* 


TO    MY    MISTRESS. 

DEAN   SWIFT. 

0  MI  de  armis  tres, 
Imi  na  dis  tres. 
Cantu  disco  ver 
Meas  alo  ver  ?t 


A    LOVE    SONG. 

DEAN   SWIFT. 

APUD  in  is  almi  de  si  re, 
Mimis  tres  I  ne  ver  re  qui  re, 
Alo  veri  findit  a  gestis, 
His  miseri  ne  ver  at  restis.J 


*  Moll  is  a  beauty, 
Has  an  acute  eye ; 
No  lass  so  fine  is, 
Molly  divine  is. 

t  O  my  dear  mistress 
I  am  in  a  distress. 
Can't  you  discover 
Me  as  a  lover  ? 

t  A  pudding  is  all  my  desire, 
My  mistress  I  never  require ; 
A  lover  I  find  it  a  jest  is, 
Uis  misery  never  at  rest  IB. 

25* 


586  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

A  GENTLE    ECHO    ON    WOMAN. 

IN   THE  DORIC   MANNER. 

DEAN  SWIFT. 

Shepherd.  ECHO,  I  ween,  will  in  the  woods  reply, 

And  quaintly  answer  questions :  shall  I  try  ? 

Echo.  Try. 

Shepherd.  What  must  we  do  our  passion  to  express  ? 

Echo.  Press. 

Shepherd.  How  shall  I  please  her,  who  ne'er  loved  before  ? 

Echo.  Before. 

Shepherd.  What  most  moves  women  when  we  them  address  ? 

Echo.  A  dress. 

Shepherd.  Say,  what  can  keep  her  chaste  whom  I  adore  ? 

Echo.  A  door. 

Shepherd.  If  music  softens  rocks,  love  tunes  my  lyre. 

Echo.  Liar. 

Shepherd.  Then  teach  me,  Echo,  how  shall  I  come  by  her  ? 

Echo.  Buy  her. 

Shepherd.  When  bought,  no  question  I  shall  be  her  dear  ? 

Echo.f  Her  deer. 

Shepherd.  But  deer  have  horns  :  how  must  I  keep  her  under  ? 

Echo.  Keep  her  under. 

Shepherd.  But  what  can  glad  me  when  she's  laid  on  bier  ? 

Echo.  Beer. 

Shepherd.  What  must  I  do  when  women  will  be  kind  ? 

Echo.  Be  kind. 

Shepherd.  What  must  I  do  when  women  will  be  cross  ? 

Echo.  Be  cross. 

Shepherd.  Lord,  what  is  she  that  can  so  turn  and  wind  ? 

Echo.  Wind. 

Shepherd.  If  she  be  wind,  what  stills  her  when  she  blows  ? 

Echo.  Blows. 

Shepherd.  But  if  she  bang  again,  still  should  I  bang  her  ? 

Echo.  BANG  HER. 

Shepherd.  Is  there  no  way  to  moderate  her  anger  ? 

Echo.  Hang  her. 

Shepherd.  Thanks,  gentle  Echo  !  right  thy  answers  tell 
What  woman  is  and  how  to  guard  her  well 

Echo.  Guard  her  welL 


ECCENTKIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  587 


TO    MY    NOSE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

KNOWS  he  that  never  took  a  pinch, 

Nosey !  the  pleasure  thence  which  flows  ? 

Knows  he  the  titillating  joy 
Which  my  nose  knows  ? 

Oh,  nose !  I  am  as  fond  of  thee 

As  any  mountain  of  its  snows  I 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  feel  that  pride 

A  Roman  knows ! 


ROGER    AND    DOLLY. 

BLAOKWOOD. 

YOUNG  ROGER  came  tapping  at  Dolly's  window — 

Thumpaty,  thumpaty,  thump ; 
He  begg'd  for  admittance — she  answered  him  no — 

Glumpaty,  glumpaty,  glump. 
No,  no,  Roger,  no — as  you  came  you  may  go — 

Stumpaty,  stumpaty,  stump. 
0  what  is  the  reason,  dear  Dolly  ?  he  cried — 

Humpaty,  humpaty,  hump— 
That  thus  I  'm  cast  off  and  unkindly  denied  ? — 

Trumpaty,  trumpaty,  trump — 
Some  rival  more  dear,  I  guess,  has  been  here — 

Crumpaty,  crumpaty,  crump — 
Suppose  there  's  been  two,  sir,  pray  what 's  that  to  you,  sir  ? 

Numpaty,  numpaty,  nump — 
Wi'  a  disconsolate  look  his  sad  farewell  he  took — 

Trumpaty,  trumpaty,  trump — 
And  all  in  despair  jump'd  into  a  brooK — 

Jumpaty,  jumpaty,  jump — 
His  courage  did  cool  in  a  filthy  green  pool — 

Slumpaty,  slumpaty,  slump — 
So  he  swam  to  the  shore,  but  saw  Dolly  no  more — 

Dumpaty,  dumpatv.  dump — 


588  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCEIPT. 

He  did  speedily  find  one  more  fat  and  more  kind — 

Plumpaty,  plumpaty,  plump — 
But  poor  Dolly  's  afraid  she  must  die  an  old  maid — 

Mumpaty,  mumpaty,  mump. 


THE   IRISHMAN. 

BLAOKWOOD. 
I. 

THERE  was  a  lady  lived  at  Leith, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man, 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 
She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman, 
A  nasty,  ugly  Irishman, 
A  wild  tremendous  Irishman, 
A  tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping,  ranting,  roaring  Irishman. 

II. 
His  face  was  no  ways  beautiful, 

For  with  small-pox  't  was  scarred  across  : 
And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
Were  almost  doubled  a  yard  across. 
0  the  lump  of  an  Irishman, 
The  whiskey  devouring  Irishman — 

The  great  he-rogue  with  his  wonderful  brogue,  the  fighting,  riot 
ing  Irishman. 

III. 

One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle  green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear ; 
And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking  legs 
Were  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear, 
0,  the  great  big  Irishman, 
The  rattling,  battling  Irishman — 

The  stamping,  ramping,  swaggering,  staggering,  leathering  swash 
of  an  Irishman. 

IV.  . 

He  took  so  much  of  Lundy-foot, 

That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle — 0, 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  589 

And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow's  neck 
Was  as  bad  as  the  neck  of  a  buffalo. 
0,  the  horrible  Irishman, 
The  thundering,  blundering  Irishman — 

The  slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing,  thrashing,  hashing  Irish 
man. 

V. 

His  name  was  a  terrible  name,  indeed, 

Being  Timothy  Thady  Mulligan ; 
And  whenever  he  emptied  his  tumbler  of  punch, 
He  'd  not  rest  till  he  fill'd  it  full  again, 
The  boozing,  bruising  Irishman, 
The  'toxicated  Irishman — 
The  whiskey,  frisky,  rummy,  gummy,  brandy,  no  dandy  Irishman. 

VI. 

This  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved, 

Like  all  the  girls  of  quality ; 
And  he  broke  the  skulls  of  the  men  of  Leith, 
Just  by  the  way  of  jollity, 

0,  the  leathering  Irishman, 
The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman — 

The  hearts  of  the  maids  and  the  gentlemen's  heads  were  bothered 
I  'in  sure  by  this  Irishman. 


A    CATALECTIC    MONODY! 

CRUIKSHANK'S  OMNIBUS. 
A  cat  I  sing,  of  famous  memory, 
Though  catachrestical  my  song  may  be ; 
In  a  small  garden  catacomb  she  lies, 
And  cataclysms  fill  her  comrades'  eyes  ; 
Borne  on  the  air,  the  catacoustic  song 
Swells  with  her  virtues'  catalogue  along ; 
No  cataplasm  could  lengthen  out  her  years, 
Though  mourning  friends  shed  cataracts  of  tears. 
Once  loud  and  strong  her  cafeehist-like  voice 
It  dwindled  to  a  catcall's  squeaking  noise  ; 


690  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCEIPT 

Most  ca/egorical  her  virtues  shone, 

By  catenation  join'd  each  one  to  one ; — 

But  a  vile  cafchpoll  dog,  with  cruel  bite, 

Like  coaling's  cut,  her  strength  disabled  quite ; 

Her  caterwauling  pierced  the  heavy  air, 

As  catfaphracts  their  arms  through  legions  bear ; 

'Tis  vain!  as  caterpillars  drag  away 

Their  lengths,  like  cattle  after  busy  day, 

She  ling'ring  died,  nor  left  in  kit  kat  the 

Embodyment  of  this  catastrophe. 


A    NEW    SONG 

OF  NEW  SIMILES. 

JOHN  GAT. 

MY  passion  is  as  mustard  strong ; 

I  sit  all  sober  sad ; 
Drunk  as  a  piper  all  day  long, 

Or  like  a  March-hare  mad. 

Bound  as  a  hoop  the  bumpers  flow ; 

I  drink,  yet  can't  forget  her ; 
For  though  as  drunk  as  David's  sow 

I  love  her  still  the  better. 

Pert  as  a  pear-monger  I  'd  be, 

If  Molly  were  but  kind  ; 
Cool  as  a  cucumber  could  see 

The  rest  of  womankind. 

Like  a  stuck  pig  I  gaping  stare, 

And  eye  her  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Lean  as  a  rake,  with  sighs  and  care, 

Sleek  as  a  mouse  before. 

Plump  as  a  partridge  was  I  known, 

And  soft  as  silk  my  skin  ; 
My  cheeks  as  fat  as  butter  grown, 

But  as  a  goat  now  thin ! 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  591 

I  melancholy  as  a  cat, 

Am  kept  awake  to  weep ; 
But  she,  insensible  of  that, 

Sound  as  a  top  can  sleep. 

Hard  is  her  heart  as  flint  or  stone, 

She  laughs  to  see  me  pale ; 
And  merry  as  a  grig  is  grown, 

And  brisk  as  bottled  ale. 

The  god  of  Love  at  her  approach 

Is  busy  as  a  bee  ; 
Hearts  sound  as  any  bell  or  roach, 

Are  smit  and  sigh  like  me. 

Ah  me  1  as  thick  as  hops  or  hail  ^ 

The  fine  men  crowd  about  her  ; 
But  soon  as  dead  as  a  door-nail 

Shall  I  be,  if  without  her. 

Straight  as  my  leg  her  shape  appears , 

0  wero  we  joiu'd  together ! 
My  heart  would  be  scot-free  from  cares, 

And  lighter  than  a  feather. 

As  fine  as  five-pence  is  her  mien, 

No  drum  was  ever  tighter  ; 
Her  glance  is  as  the  razor  keen, 

And  not  the  sun  is  brighter. 

As  soft  as  pap  her  kisses  are, 

Methinks  I  taste  them  yet ; 
Brown  as  a  berry  is  her  hair, 

Her  eyes  as  black  as  jet. 

As  smooth  as  glass,  as  white  as  curds 

Her  pretty  hand  invites ; 
Sharp  as  her  needle  are  her  words, 

Her  wit  like  pepper  bites. 

Brisk  as  a  body-louse  she  trips, 

Clean  as  a  penny  drest ; 
Sweet  as  a  rose  her  breath  and  lips, 

Round  as  the  globe  her  breast 


592  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT 

Full  as  an  egg  was  I  with  glee, 

And  happy  as  a  king : 
Good  Lord  !  how  all  men  envied  me ! 

She  loved  like  any  thing. 

But  false  as  hell,  she,  like  the  wind, 
Chang' d,  as  her  sex  must  do ; 

Though  seeming  as  the  turtle  kind, 
And  like  the  gospel  true. 

If  I  and  Molly  could  agree, 

Let  who  would  take  Peru  ! 
Great  as  an  Emperor  should  I  be, 

And  richer  than  a  Jew. 

Till  you  grow  tender  as  a  chick, 

I  'm  dull  as  any  post  ; 
Let  us  like  burs  together  stick, 

And  warm  as  any  toast. 

You  '11  know  me  truer  than  a  die, 

And  wish  me  better  sped  ; 
Flat  as  a  flounder  when  I  lie, 

And  as  a  herring  dead. 

Sure  as  a  gun  she  '11  drop  a  tear 
And  sigh,  perhaps,  and  wish, 

When  I  am  rotten  as  a  pear, 
And  mute  as  any  fish. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  SENTIMENTALIST. 

THOMAS   HOOD. 
"  My  Tables  I    Meat  it  is,  I  set  it  down  1"— HAMLET. 

I  THINK  it  was  Spring — but  not  certain  I  am — 

When  my  passion  began  first  to  work ; 
But  I  know  we  were  certainly  looking  for  lamb, 

And  the  season  was  over  for  pork. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  593 

'T  was  at  Christmas,  I  think,  when  I  met  with  Miss  Chase, 

Yes — for  Morris  had  asked  me  to  dine — 
And  I  thought  I  had  never  beheld  such  a  face, 

Or  so  noble  a  turkey  and  chine. 

Placed  close  by  her  side,  it  made  others  quite  wild 

With  sheer  envy,  to  witness  my  luck ; 
How  she  blushed  as  I  gave  her  some  turtle,  and  smiled 

As  I  afterward  offered  some  duck. 

I  looked  and  I  languished,  alas  I  to  my  cost, 

Through  three  courses  of  dishes  and  meats ; 
Getting  deeper  in  love — but  my  heart  was  quite  lost 

When  it  came  to  the  trifle  and  sweets. 

With  a  rent-roll  that  told  of  my  houses  and  land, 

To  her  parents  I  told  my  designs — 
And  then  to  herself  I  presented  my  hand, 

With  a  very  fine  pottle  of  pines  1 

I  asked  her  to  have  me  for  weal  or  for  woe, 

And  she  did  not  object  in  the  least ; — 
I  can't  tell  the  date — but  we  married  I  know 

Just  in  time  to  have  game  at  the  feast. 

We  went  to ,  it  certainly  was  the  sea-side ; 

For  the  next,  the  most  blessed  of  morns, 
I  remember  how  fondly  I  gazed  at  my  bride, 

Sitting  down  to  a  plateful  of  prawns. 

0,  never  may  memory  lose  sight  of  that  year, 

But  still  hallow  the  time  as  it  ought ! 
That  season  the  "  grass"  was  remarkably  dear, 

And  the  peas  at  a  guinea  a  quart. 

So  happy,  like  hours,  all  our  days  seemed  to  haste, 

A  fond  pair,  such  as  poets  have  drawn, 
So  united  in  heart — so  congenial  hi  taste — 

We  were  both  of  us  partial  to  brawn  I 

A  long  life  I  looked  for  of  bliss  with  my  bride, 
But  then  Death — I  ne'er  dreamt  about  that  I 

O,  there 's  nothing  is  certain  in  life,  as  I  cried 
When  my  turbot  eloped  with  the  cat  1 


594  ECCENTEIC    AND    NONDESCEIPT. 

My  dearest  took  ill  at  the  turn  of  the  year, 
But  the  cause  no  physician  could  nab ; 

But  something,  it  seemed  like  consumption,  I  fear — 
It  was  just  after  supping  on  crab. 

In  vain  she  was  doctored,  in  vain  she  was  dosed, 
Still  her  strength  and  her  appetite  pined ; 

She  lost  relish  for  what  she  had  relished  the  most, 
Even  salmon  she  deeply  declined  1 

For  months  still  I  lingered  in  hope  and  in  doubt, 
While  her  form  it  grew  wasted  and  thin ; 

But  the  last  dying  spark  of  existence  went  out, 
As  the  oysters  were  just  coming  in  1 

She  died,  and  she  left  me  the  saddest  of  men, 

To  indulge  in  a  widower's  moan ; 
Oh  I  I  felt  all  the  power  of  solitude  then, 

As  I  ate  my  first  "  natives"  alone ! 

But  when  I  beheld  Virtue's  friends  in  their  cloaks, 
And  with  sorrowful  crape  on  their  hats, 

0  my  grief  poured  a  flood  !  and  the  out-of-door  folks 
Were  all  crying — I  think  it  was  sprats ! 


FAITHLESS    NELLY    GRAY. 


A  PATHETIC  BALLAD. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


BEN  BATTLE  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms ; 

But  n  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms ! 

JNow,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot, 

For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg, 
And  the  Forty-second  Foot  I" 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  595 

The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs : 

Said  he,  they  're  only  pegs : 
But  there 's  as  wooden  members  quite 

As  represent  my  legs !" 

Now,  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid, 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 
So  he  went  up  to  pay  his  devours, 

When  he  devoured  his  pay  I 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a  scoff; 
And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 

Began  to  take  them  off  1 

«  0,  Nelly  Gray !  0,  NeUy  Gray 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform  1" 

Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 
But  I  will  never  have  a  man 

With  both  legs  in  the  grave ! 

"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now !" 

"  0,  Nelly  Gray  !  0,  Nelly  Gray ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs, 

In  Badajos's  breaches  /" 

"  Why  then,"  said  she,  "  you  've  lost  the  feec 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  can  not  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  I" 

"  0,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  : — 
Though  I  've  no  feet — some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 


696  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But  now,  a  long  farewell ! 
For  you  will  be  my  death ; — alas 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell  /" 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 
And  life  was  such  a  burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 

A  rope  he  did  entwine, 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line. 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs, 
And,  as  his  legs  were  off — of  course, 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs ! 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town — 
For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down  1 

A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 
And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

With  a  stake  in  his  inside ! 


NO! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

No  sun — no  moon ! 

No  morn — no  noon — 
No  dawn — no  dusk — no  proper  time  of  day — 

No  sky — no  earthly  view — 

No  distance  looking  blue — 
No  road — no  street — no  "  t'  other  side  the  way" — 

No  end  to  any  Row — 

No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go — 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  597 

No  top  to  any  steeple — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em — 

No  knowing  'em  ! 
To  traveling  at  all — no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 

"  No  go" — by  land  or  ocean — 

No  mail — no  post — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast — 
No  park — no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company — no  nobility — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 

No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 
No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees. 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 

November  ! 


JACOB    OMNIUM'S    HOSS. 

A  NEW   PALLICE   COURT   CHANT. 

W.    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

ONE  sees  in  Yiteall  Yard, 

Vere  pleacemen  do  resort, 
A  wenerable  hinstitute, 

'Tis  called  the  Pallis  Court. 
A  gent  as  got  his  i  on  it, 

I  think  will  make  some  sport. 

The  natur  of  this  Court 

My  hindignation  riles : 
A  few  fat  legal  spiders 

Here  set  &  spin  their  viles ; 
To  rob  the  town  theyr  privlege  is, 

In  a  hayrea  of  twelve  miles. 

The  Judge  of  this  year  Court 
Is  a  mellitary  beak, 


598  ECCENTBIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

He  knows  no  more  of  Lor 
Than  praps  he  does  of  Greek, 

And  prowides  hisself  a  deputy 
Because  he  can  not  speak. 

Four  counsel  in  this  Court — 
Misnamed  of  Justice — sits ; 

These  lawyers  owes  their  places  to 
Their  money,  not  their  wits ; 

And  there 's  six  attornies  under  them, 
As  here  their  living  gits. 

These  lawyers,  six  and  four, 

Was  a  livin  at  their  ease, 
A  sendin  of  their  writs  abowt, 

And  droring  in  the  fees, 
When  their  erose  a  cirkimstance 

As  is  like  to  make  a  breeze. 

It  now  is  some  monce  since, 
A  gent  both  good  and  trew 

Possest  a  ansum  oss  vith  vich 
He  didn  know  what  to  do : 

Peraps  he  did  not  like  the  oss, 
Perhaps  he  was  a  scru. 

This  gentleman  his  oss 
At  Tattersall's  did  lodge ; 

There  came  a  wulgar  oss-dealer, 
This  gentleman's  name  did  fodge, 

And  took  the  oss  from  Tattersall's : 
Wasn  that  a  artful  dodge  ? 

One  day  this  gentleman's  groom 

This  willain  did  spy  out, 
A  mounted  on  this  oss, 

A  ridin  him  about ; 
"  Get  out  of  that  there  oss,  you  rogue," 

Speaks  up  the  groom  so  stout. 

The  thief  was  cruel  whex'd 
To  find  hisself  so  pinn'd ; 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  509 

The  ess  began  to  whinny, 

The  honest  groom  he  grinn'd  ; 
And  the  raskle  tliief  got  off  the  oss 

And  cut  avay  like  vind. 

And  phansy  with  what  joy 

The  master  did  regard 
His  dearly  bluvd  lost  oss  again 

Trot  in  the  stable  yard  1 

Who  was  this  master  good 

Of  whomb  I  makes  these  rhymes  ? 

His  name  is  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire ; 
And  if  /'d  committed  crimes, 

Good  Lord !  I  wouldn't  ave  that  mann 
Attack  me  in  the  Times  t 

Now,  shortly  after  the  groomb 

His  master's  oss  did  take  up, 
There  came  a  livery-man 

This  gentleman  to  wake  up ; 
And  he  handed  in  a  little  bill, 

Which  hanger'd  Mr.  Jacob. 

For  two  pound  seventeen 

This  livery-man  eplied, 
For  the  keep  of  Mr.  Jacob's  oss, 

Which  the  thief  had  took  to  ride. 
"  Do  you  see  any  think  green  in  me  ?" 

Mr.  Jacob  Homnium  cried. 

"  Because  a  raskle  chews 

My  oss  away  to  robb, 
And  goes  tick  at  your  Mews 

For  seven-and-fifty  bobb, 
ShaU  /  be  called  to  pay  ?— It  is 

A  iniquitious  Jobb." 

Thus  Mr.  Jacob  cut 

The  conwasation  short ; 
The  livery-man  went  ome, 

Detummingd  to  ave  sport, 
And  summingsd  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire, 

Into  the  Pallis  Court. 


000  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

Pore  Jacob  went  to  Court, 

A  Counsel  for  to  fix, 
And  choose  a  barrister  out  of  the  four, 

An  attorney  of  the  six ; 
And  there  lie  sor  these  men  of  Lor, 

And  watched  'em  at  their  tricks. 


The  dreadful  day  of  trile 

In  the  Pallis  Court  did  come ; 

The  lawyers  said  their  say, 
The  Judge  looked  wery  glum, 

And  then  the  British  Jury  cast 
Pore  Jacob  Hom-ni-um. 

0,  a  weary  day  was  that 

For  Jacob  to  go  through  ; 
The  debt  was  two  seventeen 

(Which  he  no  mor  owed  than  you), 
And  then  there  was  the  plaintives  costs, 

Eleven  pound  six  and  two. 

And  then  there  was  his  own, 
Which  the  lawyers  they  did  fix 

At  the  wery  moderit  figgar 
Of  ten  pound  one  and  six. 

Now  Evins  bless  the  Pallis  Court, 
And  all  its  bold  ver-dicks  ! 

I  can  not  settingly  tell 

If  Jacob  swaw  and  cust, 
At  aving  for  to  pay  this  sumb, 

But  I  should  think  he  must, 
And  av  drawn  a  cheque  for  £24  4s.  3d. 

With  most  igstreme  disgust. 

0  Pallis  Court,  you  move 

My  pitty  most  profound. 
A  most  emusing  sport 

You  thought  it,  I  '11  be  bound, 
To  saddle  hup  a  three-pound 

With  two-and-twenty  pound. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  601 

Good  sport  it  is  to  you, 

To  grind  the  honest  pore ; 
To  pay  their  just  or  unjust  debts 

With  eight  hundred  per  cent,  for  Lor ; 
Make  haste  and  git  your  costes  in, 

They  will  not  last  much  nior ! 

Come  down  from  that  tribewn, 

Thou  Shameless  and  Unjust  ; 
Thou  Swindle,  picking  pockets  in 

The  name  of  Truth,  august ; 
Come  down,  thou  hoary  Blasphemy, 

For  die  thou  shalt  and  must. 

And  go  it,  Jacob  Homnium, 

And  ply  your  iron  pen, 
And  rise  up  Sir  John  Jervis, 

And  shut  me  up  that  den ; 
That  sty  for  fattening  lawyers  in, 

On  the  bones  of  honest  men. 

PLEACEMAN  X. 


THE   WOFLE   NEW  BALLAD   OF   JANE   RONEY 
AND  MARY   BROWN. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

AN  igstrawnary  tail  I  vill  tell  you  this  veek — 
I  stood  in  the  Court  of  A'Beckett  the  Beak, 
Vere  Mrs.  Jane  Roney,  a  vidow,  I  see, 
Who  charged  Mary  Brown  with  a  robbin'  of  she. 

This  Mary  was  pore  and  in  misery  once, 

And  she  came  to  Mrs.  Roney  it 's  more  than  twelve  monce  ; 

She  adn't  got  no  bed,  nor  no  dinner,  nor  no  tea, 

And  kind  Mrs.  Roney  gave  Mary  all  three. 

Mrs.  Roney  kep  Mary  for  ever  so  many  veeks 
(Her  conduct  disgusted  the  best  of  all  Beax), 
She  kept  her  for  nothink,  as  kind  as  could  be, 
Never  thinking  that  this  Mary  was  a  traitor  to  she. 
*26 


602  ECCENTRIC     AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

"  Mrs.  Roney,  0  Mrs.  Roney,  I  feel  very  ill ; 
Will  you  jest  step  to  the  doctor's  for  to  fetch  me  a  pill  ?" 
"  That  I  will,  iny  pore  Mary,"  Mrs.  Honey  says  she : 
And  she  goes  off  to  the  doctor's  as  quickly  as  may  be. 

No  sooner  on  this  message  Mrs.  Honey  was  sped, 
Than  hup  gits  vicked  Mary,  and  jumps  out  a  bed  ; 
She  hopens  all  th'e  trunks  without  never  a  key — 
She  bustes  all  the  boxes,  and  vith  them  makes  free. 

Mrs.  Honey's  best  linning  gownds,  petticoats,  and  close, 
Her  children's  little  coats  and  things,  her  boots  and  her  hose, 
She  packed  them,  and  she  stole  'em,  and  avay  vith  them  did  flee 
Mrs.  Roney's  situation — you  may  think  vat  it  vould  be ! 

Of  Mary,  ungrateful,  who  had  served  her  this  vay, 
Mrs.  Roney  heard  nothink  for  a  long  year  and  a  da^ 
Till  last  Thursday,  in  Lambeth,  ven  whom  should  she  see  ? 
But  this  Mary,  as  had  acted  so  ungrateful  to  she. 

She  was  leaning  on  the  helbo  of  a  worthy  young  man ; 
They  were  going  to  be  married,  and  were  walkin  hand  in  hand ; 
And  the  church-bells  was  a  ringing  for  Mary  and  he, 
And  the  parson  was  ready,  and  a  waitin'  for  his  fee. 

When  up  comes  Mrs.  Roney,  and  faces  Mary  Brown, 
Who  trembles,  and  castes  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
She  calls  a  jolly  pleaseman,  it  happens  to  be  me ; 
I  charge  this  young  woman,  Mr.  Pleaseman,  says  she. 

Mrs.  Roney,  o,  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  do  let  me  go, 

I  acted  most  ungrateful  I  own,  and  I  know, 

But  the  marriage  bell  is  a  ringin,  and  the  ring  you  may  see, 

And  this  young  man  is  a  waitin,  says  Mary,  says  she. 

I  don't  care  three  fardens  for  the  parson  and  dark, 
And  the  bell  may  keep  ringing  from  noon  day  to  dark. 
Mary  Brown,  Mary  Brown,  you  must  come  along  with  me. 
And  I  think  this  young  man  is  lucky  to  be  free. 

So,  in  spite  of  the  tears  which  bejewed  Mary's  check, 
I  took  that  young  gurl  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak ; 
That  exlent  justice  demanded  her  plea — 
But  never  a  sullable  said  Mary  said  she. 


ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT.  603 

On  account  of  her  conduck  so  base  and  so  vile, 
That  wicked  young  gurl  is  committed  for  trile, 
And  if  she 's  transpawted  beyond  the  salt  sea, 
It 's  a  proper  reward  for  such  willians  as  she. 

Now,  you  young  gurls  of  Southwark  for  Mary  who  veep, 
From  pickin  and  stealin  your  ands  you  must  keep, 
Or  it  may  be  my  dooty,  as  it  was  Thursday  veek 
To  pull  you  all  hup  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak. 

PLEACEMAN  X. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    ELIZA    DAVIS. 

W.    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

GALLIANT  gents  and  lovely  ladies, 

List  a  tail  vich  late  befel, 
Vich  I  heard  it,  bein  on  duty, 

At  the  Pleace  Hoffice,  Clerkenwell. 

Praps  you  know  the  Fondling  Chapel, 

Vere  the  little  children  sings : 
(Lor !  I  likes  to  hear  on  Sundies 

Them  there  pooty  little  things !) 

In  this  street  there  lived  a  housemaid, 
If  you  particklarly  ask  me  where — 

Vy,  it  was  at  four-and-tventy, 

Guilford  Street,  by  Brunsvick  Square. 

Vich  her  name  was  Eliza  Davis, 

And  she  went  to  fetch  the  beer : 
In  the  street  she  met  a  party 

As  was  quite  surprized  to  see  her. 

Vich  he  vas  a  British  Sailor, 

For  to  judge  him  by  liis  look : 
Tarry  jacket,  canvas  trowsies, 

Ha-la  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke. 

Presently  this  Mann  accostes 

Of  this  hinnocent  young  gal — 
Pray,  saysee,  Excuse  my  freedom, 

You  're  so  like  my  Sister  Sal ! 


604  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT 

You  're  so  like  my  Sister  Sally, 
Both  in  valk  and  face  and  size ; 

Miss,  that — dang  my  old  lee  scuppers, 
It  brings  tears  into  my  hyes ! 

I  'm  a  mate  on  board  a  wessel, 
I  'm  a  sailor  bold  and  true ; 

Shiver  up  my  poor  old  timbers, 
Let  me  be  a  mate  for  you ! 

What 's  your  name,  my  beauty,  tell  me  ? 

And  she  faintly  hansers,  "  Lore, 
Sir,  my  name  's  Eliza  Davis, 

And  I  live  at  tventy-four." 

Hofttimes  came  this  British  seaman, 

This  deluded  gal  to  meet : 
And  at  tventy-four  was  welcom  . 

Tventy-four  in  Guilford  Stro-  ' . 

And  Eliza  told  her  Master 

(Kinder  they  than  Missuses  are), 

How  in  marridge  he  had  ast  her, 
Like  a  galliant  Brittish  Tar. 

And  he  brought  his  landlady  vith  him 
(Vich  vas  all  his  hartful  plan), 

And  she  told  how  Charley  Thompson 
Reely  was  a  good  young  man. 

And  how  she  herself  had  lived  in 
Many  years  of  union  sweet, 

Vith  a  gent  she  met  promiskous, 
Valkin  hi  the  public  street. 

And  Eliza  listened  to  them, 

And  she  thought  that  soon  their  b;uids 
Vould  be  published  at  the  Fondlin, 

Hand  the  clergyman  jine  their  an<ls. 

And  he  ast  about  the  lodgers 

(Yich  her  master  let  some  rooms), 

Likevise  vere  they  kep  their  things,  utid 
Yere  her  master  kep  his  spoons. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  605 

Hand  this  vicked  Charley  Thompson 

Came  on  Sundy  veek  to  see  her, 
And  he  sent  Eliza  Davis 

Hout  to  vetch  a  pint  of  beer. 

Hand  while  poor  Eliza  vent  to 

Fetch  the  beer,  dewoid  of  sin, 
This  etrocious  Charley  Thompson 

Let  his  wile  accomplish  liin. 

To  the  lodgers,  their  apartments, 

This  abandingd  female  goes, 
Prigs  their  shirts  and  umberellas  : 

Prigs  their  boots,  and  hats,  and  clothes. 

Vile  the  scoundrle  Charley  Thompson, 

Lest  his  wictim  should  escape, 
Hocust  her  vith  rum  and  vater, 

Like  a  fiend  in  huming  shape. 

But  a  hi  was  fixt  upon  'em 

Vich  these  raskles  little  sore ; 
Namely,  Mr.  Hide,  the  landlord 

Of  the  house  at  tventy-four. 

He  vas  valkin  hi  his  garden, 

Just  afore  he  vent  to  sup  ; 
And  on  looking  up  he  sor  the 

Lodger's  vinders  lighted  hup. 

Hup  the  stairs  the  landlord  tumbled  ; 

Something 's  going  wrong,  he  said ; 
And  he  caught  the  vicked  voman 

Underneath  the  lodger's  bed. 

And  he  called  a  brother  Pleaseman, 

Yich  vas  passing  on  his  beat, 
Like  a  true  and  galliant  feller, 

Hup  and  down  in  Guildford  Street. 

And  that  Pleaseman,  able-bodied, 

Took  this  voman  to  the  cell ; 
To  the  cell  vere  she  was  quodded, 

In  the  Close  of  Clerkenwell. 


606  ECCENTRIC     AND     NONDESCRIPT 

And  though  vicked  Charley  Thompson 
Boulted  like  a  miscrant  base, 

Presently  another  Pleaseman 
Took  him  to  the  self-same  place. 

And  this  precious  pair  of  raskles 
Tuesday  last  came  up  for  doom ; 

By  the  beak  they  was  committed, 
Vich  his  name  was  Mr.  Combe. 

Has  for  poor  Eliza  Davis, 

Simple  gurl  of  tventy-four, 
She,  I  ope,  will  never  listen 

In  the  streets  to  sailors  moar. 

But  if  she  must  ave  a  sweet-art 
(Vich  most  every  gurl  expex), 

Let  her  take  a  jolly  Pleaseman, 
Vich  is  name  peraps  is — X. 


LINES  ON  A  LATE  HOSPICIOUS  EWENT  * 

BY   A   GENTLEMAN   OF   THE   FOOT-GUARDS    (BLUE). 

W.    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

I  PACED  upon  my  beat 

With  steady  step  and  slow, 
All  huppandownd  of  Ranelagh-street ; 

Ran'lagh,  St.  Pimlico. 

While  marching  huppandownd 

Upon  that  fair  May  morn, 
Beold  the  booming  cannings  sound, 

A  royal  child  is  born ! 

The  Ministers  of  State 

Then  presnly  I  sor, 
They  gallops  to  the  Pallia  gate, 

In  carridges  and  for. 

•  The  birth  of  Prince  Arthur. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  007 

With  anxious  looks  intent, 

Before  the  gate  they  stop, 
There  comes  the  good  Lord  President, 

And  there  the  Archbishopp. 

Lord  John  he  next  elights ; 

And  who  comes  here  in  haste  ? 
'Tis  the  ero  of  one  underd  fights, 

The  caudle  for  to  taste. 

Then  Mrs.  Lily,  the  nuss, 

Toward  them  steps  with  joy ; 
Says  the  brave  old  Duke,  "  Come  tell  to  us, 

Is  it  a  gal  or  a  boy  ?" 

Says  Mrs.  L.  to  the  Duke, 

"  Your  Grace,  it  is  a  Prince" 
And  at  that  nuss's  bold  rebuke, 

He  did  both  laugh  and  wince. 

He  vews  with  pleasant  look 

This  pooty  flower  of  May, 
Then  says  the  wenerable  Duke, 

"  Egad,  its  my  buthday." 

By  memory  backards  borne, 

Peraps  his  thoughts  did  stray 
To  that  old  place  where  he  was  born 

Upon  the  first  of  May. 

Peraps  he  did  recal 

The  ancient  towers  of  Trim  ; 
And  County  Meath  and  Dangan  Hall 

They  did  rewisit  him. 

I  phansy  of  him  so 

His  good  old  thoughts  employin'  ; 
Fourscore  years  and  one  ago 

Beside  the  flowin'  Boyne. 

His  father  praps  he  sees, 

Most  musicle  of  Lords, 
A  playing  maddrigles  and  glees 

Upon  -the  Arpsicords. 


608  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

Jest  phansy  this  old  Ero 

Upon  his  mother's  knee  ! 
Did  ever  lady  in  this  land 

Ave  greater  sons  than  she  ? 

And  I  shouldn  be  surprise 
While  this  was  in  his  mind, 

If  a  drop  there  twinkled  in  his  eyes 
Of  unfamiliar  brind. 


To  Hapsly  Ouse  next  day 
Drives  up  a  Broosh  and  for, 

A  gracious  prince  sits  in  that  Shay 
(I  mention  him  with  Hor !) 

They  ring  upon  the  bell, 
The  Porter  shows  his  ed, 

(He  fought  at  Yaterloo  as  veil, 
And  vears  a  veskit  red.) 

To  see  that  carriage  come 
The  people  round  it  press  : 

"  And  is  the  galliant  Duke  at  ome  ?" 
"  Your  Royal  Ighness,  yes." 

He  stepps  from  out  the  Broosh 

And  in  the  gate  is  gone, 
And  X,  although  the  people  push, 

Says  wery  kind  "  Move  hon." 

The  Royal  Prince  unto 
The  galliant  Duke  did  say, 

"  Dear  Duke,  my  little  son  and  you 
Was  born  the  self-same  day. 

"The  lady  of  the  land, 

My  wife  and  Sovring  dear, 

It  is  by  her  horgust  command 
I  wait  upon  you  here. 

"  That  lady  is  as  well 
As  can  expected  be  ; 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  000 

And  to  your  Grace  she  bid  me  tell 
This  gracious  message  free. 

"  That  offspring  of  our  race, 

Whom  yesterday  you  see, 
To  show  our  honor  for  your  Grace, 

Prince  Arthur  he  shall  be. 

"  That  name  it  rhymes  to  fame ; 

All  Europe  knows  the  sound ; 
And  I  could  n't  find  a  better  name 

If  you  'd  give  me  twenty  pound. 

"  King  Arthur  had  his  knights 

That  girt  his  table  round, 
But  you  have  won  a  hundred  fights, 

Will  match  'em,  I  '11  be  bound. 

"  You  fought  with  Bonypart, 

And  likewise  Tippoo  Saib  ; 
I  name  you  then,  with  all  my  heart, 

The  Godsire  of  this  babe." 

That  Prince  his  leave  was  took, 

His  hinterview  was  done. 
So  let  us  give  the  good  old  Duke 

Good  luck  of  his  god-son, 

And  wish  him  years  of  joy 

In  this  our  time  of  Schism, 
And  hope  he'll  hear  the  royal  boy 

His  little  catechism. 

And  my  pooty  little  Prince 

That's  come  our  arts  to  cheer, 
Let  me  my  loyal  powers  ewince 

A  welcomin  of  you  ere. 

And  the  Poit-Laureat's  crownd, 

I  think,  in  some  respex, 
Egstremely  shootable  might  be  found 

For  honest  Pleaseman  X. 
26* 


010  ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT. 


THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  TIIE  FOUNDLING 
OF  SHOREDITCH. 

W.    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

COME,  all  ye  Christian  people,  and  listen  to  my  tail, 

It  is  all  about  a  Doctor  was  traveling  by  the  rail, 

By  the  Heastern  Counties  Railway  (vich  the  shares  don't  desire), 

From  Ixworth  town  in  Suffolk,  vich  his  name  did  not  transpire. 

A  traveling  from  Bury  this  Doctor  was  employed 

With  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  vich  his  name  was  Captain 

Loyd; 

And  on  reaching  Marks  Tey  Station,  that  is  next  beyond  Colchest 
er,  a  lady  entered  into  them  most  elegantly  dressed. 

She  entered  into  the  carriage  all  with  a  tottering  step, 
And  a  pooty  little  Bayby  upon  her  bussum  slep ; 
The  gentlemen  received  her  with  kindness  and  siwillaty, 
Pitying  this  lady  for  her  illness  and  debillaty. 

She  had  a  fust-class  ticket,  this  lovely  lady  said, 
Because  it  was  so  lonesome  she  took  a  secknd  instead. 
Better  to  travel  by  secknd  class  than  sit  alone  in  the  fust, 
And  the  pooty  little  Baby  upon  her  breast  she  nust. 

A  seein  of  her  cryin,  and  shiverin  and  pail, 

To  hqr  spoke  this  surging,  the  Ero  of  my  tail ; 

Saysee  you  look  unwell,  ma'am,  I'll  elp  you  if  I  can, 

And  you  may  tell  your  case  to  me,  for  I  'm  a  meddicle  man. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  I  only  look  so  pale, 
Because  I  ain't  accustom'd  to  traveling  on  the  rale ; 
I  shall  be  better  presnly,  when  I  've  ad  some  rest :" 
And  that  pooty  little  Baby  she  squeeged  it  to  her  breast. 

So  in  conwersation  the  journey  they  beguiled, 

Capting  Loyd  and  the  medical  man,  and  the  lady  and  the  child, 

Till  the  warious  stations  along  the  line  was  passed, 

For  even  the  Heastern  Counties'  trains  must  come  hi  at  last 

When  at  Shoreditch  tumminus  at  lenth  stopped  the  train, 
This  kind  meddicle  gentleman  proposed  his  aid  again. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  611 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  for  your  kyindness  dear  ; 
My  carridge  and  my  osses  is  probbibly  come  here. 

"  Will  you  old  this  baby,  please,  vilst  I  step  and  see  ?" 
The  Doctor  was  a  famly  man :  "  That  I  will,"  says  he. 
Then  the  little  child  she  kist,  kist  it  very  gently, 
Vich  was  sucking  his  little  fist,  sleeping  innocently. 

With  a  sigh  from  her  art,  as  though  she  would  have  bust  it, 
Then  she  gave  the  Doctor  the  child — wery  kind  he  nust  it ; 
Hup  then  the  lady  jumped  hoff  the  bench  she  sat  from, 
Tumbled  down  the  carridge  steps  and  ran  along  the  platform. 

Vile  hall  the  other  passengers  vent  upon  their  vays, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  sat  there  in  a  maze ; 
Some  vent  in  a  Homminibus,  some  vent  in  a  Cabby, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  vaited  with  the  babby. 

There  they  sat  looking  queer,  for  an  hour  or  more, 
But  their  feller  passinger  neather  on  'em  sore  : 
Never,  never  back  again  did  that  lady  come 
To  that  pooty  sleeping  Hinfant  a  suckin  of  his  Thum ! 

What  could  this  pore  Doctor  do,  bein  treated  thus, 

When  the  darling  baby  woke,  cryin  for  its  nuss  ? 

Off  he  drove  to  a  female  friend,  vich  she  was  both  kind  and  mild, 

And  igsplained  to  her  the  circumstance  of  this  year  little  child. 

That  kind  lady  took  the  child  instantly  in  her  lap, 

And  made  it  very  comforable  by  giving  it  some  pap  • 

And  when  she  took  its  close  off,  what  d'  you  think  she  found  ? 

A  couple  of  ten  pun  notes  sown  up,  in  its  little  gownd ! 

Also,  in  its  little  close,  was  a  note  which  did  conwey. 
That  this  little  baby's  parents  lived  in  a  handsome  way : 
And  for  its  Headucation  they  reglary  would  pay, 
And  sirtingly  like  gentle-folks  would  claim  the  child  one  day, 
If  the  Christian  people  who  'd  charge  of  it  would  say, 
Per  adwertisement  in  the  Times,  where  the  baby  lay. 

Pity  of  this  bayby  many  people  took, 

It  had  such  pooty  ways  and  such  a  pooty  look  ; 

And  there  came  a  lady  forrard  (I  wish  that  I  could  see 

Any  kind  lady  as  would  do  as  much  for  me , 


612  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

And  I  wish  with  all  my  art,  some  night  in  my  night  gownd, 
I  could  find  a  note  stitched  for  ten  or  twenty  pound) — 
There  came  a  lady  forrard,  that  most  honorable  did  say, 
She  'd  adopt  this  little  baby,  which  her  parents  cast  away. 

While  the  Doctor  pondered  on  this  hoffer  fair, 
Comes  a  letter  from  Devonshire,  from  a  party  there, 
Bordering  the  Doctor,  at  its  Mar's  desire, 
To  send  the  little  infant  back  to  Devonshire. 

Lost  in  apoplexity,  this  pore  meddicle  man, 
Like  a  sensable  gentleman,  to  the  Justice  ran  ; 
Which  his  name  was  Mr.  Hammill,  a  honorable  beak, 
That  takes  his  seat  in  Worship-street  four  times  a  week. 

"  0  Justice !"  says  the  Doctor,  "  Instrugt  me  what  to  do, 
I  Ve  come  up  from  the  country,  to  throw  myself  on  you ; 
My  patients  have  no  doctor  to  tend  them  in  their  ills, 
(There  they  are  in  Suffolk  without  their  draffts  and  pills !) 

"  I  Ve  come  up  from  the  country,  to  know  how  I  '11  dispose 
Of  this  pore  little  baby,  and  the  twenty-pun  note,  and  the  clothes, 
And  I  want  to  go  back  to  Suffolk,  dear  Justice,  if  you  please, 
And  my  patients  wants  their  Doctor,  and  their  Doctor  wants  his 
feez." 

Up  spoke  Mr.  Hammill,  sittin  at  his  desk, 

"  This  year  application  does  me  much  perplesk ; 

What  I  do  adwise  you,  js  to  leave  this  babby 

In  the  Parish  where  it  was  left,  by  its  mother  shabby." 

The  Doctor  from  his  Worship  sadly  did  depart — 
He  might  have  left  the  baby,  but  he  had  n't  got  the  heart 
To  go  for  to  leave  that  Hinnocent,  has  the  laws  allows, 
To  the  tender  mussies  of  the  Union  House. 

Mother,  who  left  this  little  one  on  a  stranger's  knee, 
Think  how  cruel  you  have  been,  and  how  good  was  he ! 
Think,  if  you  Ve  been  guilty,  innocent  was  she ; 
And  do  not  take  unkindly  this  little  word  of  me : 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  us  all,  shiners  as  we  be ! 

PLEACEMAN  X. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  613 


THE    CRYSTAL    PALACE. 

W.    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 

WITH  ganial  foire 

Thransfuse  me  loyrc, 
Ye  sacred  nyrnphths  of  Pindus, 

The  whoile  I  sing 

That  wondthrous  thing 
The  Palace  made  o'  windows! 

Say,  Paxton,  truth, 

Thou  wondthrous  youth, 
What  sthroke  of  art  celistial 

What  power  was  lint 

You  to  invint 
This  combineetion  cristial. 

O  would  before 

That  Thomas  Moore 
Likewoise  the  late  Lord  Boyron, 

Thim  aigles  sthrong 

Of  Q-odlike  song, 
Cast  oi  on  that  cast  oiron  ! 

And  saw  thim  walls, 

And  glittering  halls, 
Thim  rising  slendther  columns, 

Which  I,  poor  pote, 

Could  not  denote, 
No,  not  in  twinty  vollums. 

My  Muse's  words 

Is  like  the  birds 
That  roosts  beneath  the  panes  there ; 

Her  wings  she  spoils 

'Gainst  them  bright  toiles, 
And  cracks  her  silly  brains  there. 

This  Palace  tall, 
This  Cristial  Hall, 
Which  imperors  might  covet, 


014  ECCENTRIC     AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

Stands  in  Hide  Park 
Like  Noah's  Ark 
A  rainbow  bint  above  it 

The  towers  and  faynes, 

In  other  scaynes, 
The  fame  of  this  will  undo, 

Saint  Paul's  big  doom, 

St.  Payther's  Room, 
And  Dublin's  proud  Rotundo. 

'Tis  here  that  roams, 

As  well  becomes 
Her  dignitee  and  stations, 

Victoria  great, 

And  houlds  in  state 
The  Congress  of  the  Nations. 

Her  subjects  pours 

From  distant  shores, 
Her  Injians  and  Canadians ; 

And  also  we, 

Her  kingdoms  three, 
Attind  with  our  allagiance. 

Here  comes  likewise 

Her  bould  allies, 
Both  Asian  and  Europian ; 

From  East  and  West 

They  sent  their  best 
To  fill  her  Coornocopean. 

I  seen  (thank  Grace  !) 

This  wondthrous  place 
(His  Noble  Honor  Misteer 

H.  Cole  it  was 

That  gave  the  pass, 
And  let  me  see  what  is  there.) 

With  conscious  proide 
I  stud  insoide 
And  look'd  the  World's  Great  Fair  in, 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  616 

Until  me  sight 
Was  dazzled  quite, 
And  couldn't  see  for  staring. 

There 's  holy  saints 

And  window  paints, 
By  Maydiayval  Pugin ; 

Alhamborough  Jones 

Did  paint  the  tones 
Of  yellow  and  gambouge  in. 

There 's  fountains  there 

And  crosses  fair ; 
There 's  water-gods  with  urrns  j 

There 's  organs  three, 

To  play,  d'  ye  see, 
"  Grod  save  the  Queen,"  by  turns. 

There 's  statues  bright 

Of  marble  white, 
Of  silver  and  of  copper, 

And  some  in  zink, 

And  some,  I  think, 
That  is  n't  over  proper. 

There  's  staym  Ingynes, 

That  stand  in  lines, 
Enormous  and  amazing, 

That  squeal  and  snort, 

Like  whales  in  sport, 
Or  elephants  a-grazing. 

There 's  carts  and  gigs, 

And  pins  for  pigs ; 
There 's  dibblers  and  there 's  harrow?, 

And  plows  like  toys, 

For  little  boys, 
And  illegant  wheel-barrows. 

For  them  genteels 
Who  ride  on  wheels, 
There  's  plenty  to  indulge  'em , 


616  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

There  's  Droskys  snug 
From  Paytersbug 
And  vayhycles  from  Belgium. 

There 's  Cabs  on  Stands, 

And  Shandthry  danns ; 
There 's  wagons  from  New  York  here  j 

There  's  Lapland  Sleighs, 

Have  cross' d  the  seas, 
And  Jaunting  Cars  from  Cork  here. 

Amazed  I  pass 

From  glass  to  glass, 
Deloighted  I  survey  'em ; 

Fresh  wondthers  grows 

Beneath  me  nose 
In  this  sublime  Musayum. 

Look,  here 's  a  fan 
From  far  Japan, 
A  saber  from  Damasco ; 
There 's  shawls  ye  get 
From  far  Thibet, 
f  And  cotton  prints  from  Glasgow. 

There 's  German  flutes, 

Marocky  boots, 
And  Naples  Macaronies ; 

Bohaymia 

Has  sent  Boh  ay, 
Polonia  her  polonies. 

There 's  granite  flints 

That 's  quite  imminse, 
There 's  sacks  of  coals  and  fuels, 

There 's  swords  and  guns, 

And  soap  in  tuns, 
And  Ginger-bread  and  Jewels. 

•v 

There 's  taypots  there, 
And  cannons  rare ; 
There 's  coffins  filled  with  roses  • 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  C17 

There 's  canvas  tints, 
Teeth  instruments, 
And  shuits  of  clothes  by  MOSES. 

There 's  lashins  more 

Of  things  in  store, 
But  thim  I  don't  remimber ; 

Nor  could  disclose 

Did  I  compose 
From  May  time  to  Novimber.  • 

Ah,  JUDY  thru ! 

With  eyes  so  blue, 
That  you  were  here  to  view  it ! 

And  could  I  screw 

But  tu  pound  tu 
'Tis  I  would  thrait  you  to  it. 

So  let  us  raise 

Victoria's  praise, 
And  Albert's  proud  condition, 

That  takes  his  ayse 

As  he  surveys 
This  Crystal  Exliibition. 


THE    SPECULATORS. 

W.    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY, 

THE  night  was  stormy  and  dark,  The  town  was  shut  up  in 
sleep :  Only  those  were  abroad  who  were  out  on  a  lark,  Or 
those  who  'd  no  beds  to  keep. 

I  pass'd  through  the  lonely  street,  The  wind  did  sing  and 
blow ;  I  could  hear  the  policeman's  feet  Clapping  to  and  fro. 

There  stood  a  potato-man  In  the  midst  of  all  the  wet ;  He 
stood  with  his  'tato-can  In  the  lonely  Haymarket. 

Two  gents  of  dismal  mien,  And  dark  and  greasy  rags,  Came 
out  of  a  shop  for  gin,  Swaggering  over  the  flags : 


C18  ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT. 

Swaggering  over  the  stones,  These  shabby  bucks  did  walk ; 
And  I  went  and  followed  those  seedy  ones,  And  listened  to 
their  talk. 


Was  I  sober  or  awake  ?  Could  I  believe  my  ears  ?  Those 
dismal  beggars  spake  Of  nothing  but  railroad  shares. 

I  wondered  more  and  more :  Says  one — "  G-ood  friend  of 
mine,  How  many  shares  have  you  wrote  for  In  the  Diddle- 
sex  Junction  line  ?" 


"  I  wrote  for  twenty,"  says  Jim,  "  But  they  wouldn't  give 
me  one ;"  His  comrade  straight  rebuked  him  For  the  folly  he 
had  done : 


"  0  Jim,  you  are  unawares  Of  the  ways  of  this  bad  town  ; 
/  always  write  for  five  hundred  shares,  And  then  they  put  me 
down." 


"  And  yet  you  got  no  shares,"  Says  Jim,  "  for  all  your  boast ;" 
"  I  would  have  wrote,"  says  Jack,  "  but  where  Was  the  penny 
to  pay  the  post  ?" 

"  I  lost,  for  I  could  n't  pay  That  first  instalment  up  ;  But 
here 's  taters  smoking  hot — I  say  Let 's  stop,  my  boy,  and  sup." 

And  at  this  simple  feast  The  while  they  did  regale,  I  drew 
each  ragged  capitalist  Down  on  my  left  thumb-nail. 


Their  talk  did  me  perplex,  All  night  I  tumbled  and  toss'd 
And  thought  of  railroad  specs,  And  how  money  was  won  and 
lost 


"  Bless  railroads  everywhere,"  I  said,  "  and  the  world's 
advance ;  Bless  every  railroad  share  In  Italy,  Ireland,  France ; 
For  never  a  beggar  need  now  despair,  And  every  rogue  has  a 
chance." 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  619 


LETTER 

FROM  MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE  HON.  J.  T.  BUCKINGHAM,  EDITOR 
OF  THE  BOSTON  COURIER,  COVERING  A  LETTER  FROM  MR.  B.  SAW- 
IN,  PRIVATE  IN  THE  MASSACHUSETTS  REGIMENT  IN  MEXICO. 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

MISTEB  BUCKIXUM,  the  follerin  Billet  was  writ  hum  by  a  Yung  feller  of  our 
town  that  wuz  cussed  fool  enuff  to  goe  atrottin  inter  Miss  Chiff  arter  a  Drum 
and  fife,  it  ain't  Nater  for  a  feller  to  let  on  that  he's  sick  o'  any  bizness  that  lie 
went  intu  off  his  own  free  will  and  a  Cord,  but  I  rather  cal'late  he's  middlin 
tired  o'  voluntearin  By  this  Time.  I  bleeve  u  may  put  dependunts  on  his  state- 
mence.  For  I  never  heered  nothin  bud  on  him  let  Alone  his  havin  what  Parson 
Wilbur  cals  a  pongshong  for  cocktales,  and  he  ses  it  wuz  a  soshiashnn  of  idees  sot 
him  agoin  arter  the  Crootin  Sargient  cos  he  wore  a  cocktale  onto  his  hat. 

his  Folks  gin  the  letter  to  me  and  i  shew  it  to  parson  Wilbur  and  he  ses  it 
oughter  Bee  printed,  send  It  to  mister  Buckinum,  ses  he,  i  don1 1  oilers  agree 
with  him,  ses  he,  but  by  Time,  says  he,  I  du  like  a  feller  that  ain't  a  Feared. 

I  have  intusspussed  a  Few  refleckshuns  hear  and  thair.  We're  kind  o'  prest 
with  Hayin. 

Ewers  respecfly 

HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

THIS  kind  o'  sogerin'  aint  a  mite  like  our  October  trainin', 

A  chap  could  clear  right  out  from  there  ef  't  only  looked  like 

rainin'. 
An'  tli'  Gunnies,  tu,  could  kiver  up  their  shappoes  with  ban- 

danners, 

An'  send  the  insines  skootin'  to  the  bar-room  with  their  banners, 
(Fear  o'  gittin'  on  'em  spotted),  an'  a  feller  could  cry  quarter 
Ef  he  fired  away  his  ramrod  arter  tu  much  rum  an'  water. 
Recollect  wut  fun  we  hed,  you  'n  I  an'  Ezry  Hollis, 
Up  there  to  Waltham  plain  last  fall,  ahavin'  the  Cornwallis  ?* 
This  sort  o'  thing  aint  jest  like  thet — I  wish  thet  I  wuz  furder — 1 
Nimepunce  a  day  fer  killin'  folks  comes  kind  o'  low  fer  murder 
(Wy  I  've  worked  out  to  slarterin'  some  for  Deacon  Cephas 

Billins, 

An'  in  the  hardest  times  there  wuz  I  oilers  tetched  ten  shilLns), 
There  's  sutthin'  gits  into  my  throat  thet  makes  it  hard  to  swaller. 
It  comes  so  nateral  to  think  about  a  hempen  collar ; 
It 's  glory — but,  in  spite  o'  all  my  tryin  to  git  callous, 
I  feel  a  kind  o'  in  a  cart,  aridin'  to  the  gallus. 

•  i  hait  the  Site  of  a  feller  with  a  muskit  as  I  du  pizn  But  their  ia  fun  to  a 
cornwallis  I  ain't  agoin  to  deny  it. — H.  B. 
t  he  means  Not  quite  so  fur  i  guess. — H.  B. 


620  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

But  when  it  comes  to  bein'  killed — I  tell  ye  I  felt  streaked 
The  fust  time  ever  I  found  out  wy  baggonets  wuz  peaked ; 
Here 's  how  it  wuz :  I  started  out  to  go  to  a  fandango, 
The  sentinul  he  ups  an'  sez,  "  Thet  's  furder  'an  you  can  go." 
"  None  o'  your  sarse,"  sez  I ;  sez  he,  "  Stan'  back !"     "  Aint  you 

a  buster  ?" 

Sez  I,  "  I  'm  up  to  all  thet  ah*,  I  guess  I  've  ben  to  muster ; 
I  know  wy  sentinuls  air  sot ;  you  aint  agoin'  to  eat  us  ; 
Caleb  haint  no  monopoly  to  court  the  seenoreetas ; 
My  folks  to  hum  air  full  ez  good  ez  hisn  be,  by  golly!" 
An'  so  ez  I  wuz  goin'  by,  not  thinkin'  wut  would  folly, 
The  everlastin'  cus  he  stuck  his  one-pronged  pitchfork  in  me 
An'  made  a  hole  right  thru  my  close  ez  ef  I  wuz  an  in'my. 
Wai,  it  beats  all  how  big  I  felt  hoorawin'  hi  ole  Funnel 
Wen  Mister  Bolles  he  gin  the  sword  to  our  Leftenant  Cunnle 
(It 's  Mister  Secondary  Bolles,*  thet  writ  the  prize  peace  essay ; 
Thet 's  wy  he  did  n't  list  himself  along  o'  us,  I  dessay), 
An'  Rantoul,  tu,  talked  pooty  loud,  but  don't  put  his  foot  in  it, 
Coz  human  life 's  so  sacred  thet  he  's  principled  agin'  it — 
Though  I  myself  can  't  rightly  see  it 's  any  wus  achokin'  on  'em 
Than  puttin'  bullets  thru  their  lights,  or  with  a  bagnet  pokin'  on 

'em; 

How  dreffle  slick  he  reeled  it  off  (like  Blitz  at  our  lyceum 
Ahaulin'  ribbins  from  his  chops  so  quick  you  skeercely  see  'em), 
About  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  (an'  saxons  would  be  handy 
To  do  the  bury  in'  down  here  upon  the  Rio  Grandy), 
About  our  patriotic  pas  an'  our  star-spangled  banner, 
Our  country's  bird  alookin'  on  an'  singin'  out  hosanner, 
An'  how  he  (Mister  B.  himself)  wuz  happy  fer  Ameriky — 
I  felt,  ez  sister  Patience  sez,  a  leetle  mite  histericky. 
I  felt,  I  swon,  ez  though  it  wuz  a  dreffle  kind  o'  privilege 
Atrampin'  round  thru  Boston  streets  among  the  gutter's  drive- 

lage  ; 

I  act'lly  thought  it  wuz  a  treat  to  hear  a  little  drummin', 
An'  it  did  bonyfidy  seem  millanyum  wuz  acomin' 
Wen  all  on  us  got  suits  (darned  like  them  wore  in  the  state 

prison) 
An'  every  feller  felt  ez  though  all  Mexico  wuz  hisn.t 

*  the  ignerant  creeter  means  Sekketary ;  but  he  oilers  stuck  to  his  books  like 
cobbler's  wax  to  an  ilc-stone. — II.  B. 

t  it  must  be  aloud  that  thare's  a  streak  o1  nater  in  lovin'  sho,  but  it  sartinly  is 
1  of  the  curusest  things  in  nater  to  see  a  rispecktable  dri  goods  dealer  (deekon 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  621 

This  'ere  's  about  the  meanest  place  a  skunk  could  wal  diskiver 
(Saltillo  's  Mexican,  I  b'lieve,  fer  wut  we  call  Saltriver). 
The  sort  o'  trash  a  feller  gits  to  eat  doos  beat  all  nater, 
I  'd  give  a  year's  pay  fer  a  smell  o'  one  good  bluenose  tater ; 
The  country  here  thet  Mister  Bolles  declared  to  be  so  charrnin' 
Throughout  is  swarmin'  with  the  most  alarmin'  kind  o'  varmin'. 
He  talked  about  delishis  froots,  but  then  it  wuz  a  wopper  all, 
The  holl  on't  's  mud  an'  prickly  pears,  with  here  an'  there  a 

chapparal ; 

You  see  a  feller  peekin'  out,  an',  fust  you  know,  a  lariat 
Is  round  your  throat  en'  you  a  copse,  Tore  you  can  say,  "  Wut 

air  ye  at  ?"* 

You  never  see  sech  darned  gret  bugs  (it  may  not  be  irrelevant 
To  say  I  've  seen  a  scarabceus  pilalarius^  big  ez  a  year  old  ele 
phant), 

The  rigiment  come  up  one  day  in  time  to  stop  a  red  bug 
From  runnin'  off  with  Cunnle  Wright — 'twuz  jest  a  common 

cimex  lectularius.  % 

One  night  I  started  up  on  eend  an'  thought  I  wuz  to  hum  agin, 
I  heern  a  horn,  thinks  I  it 's  Sol  the  fisherman  hez  come  agin, 
His  bellowses  is  sound  enough — ez  I  'm  a  livin'  creeter, 
I  felt  a  tiling  go  thru  my  leg — 't  wuz  nothin'  more  'n  a  skeeter ! 
Then  there  's  the  yaller  fever,  tu,  they  call  it  here  el  vornito — 
(Come,  thet  wun't  du,  you  landcrab  there,  I  tell  ye  to  le'  go  my 

toe! 

My  gracious !  it 's  a  scorpion  thet 's  took  a  shine  to  play  with  't, 
I  dars  n't  skeer  the  tarnal  thing  fer  fear  he  'd  run  away  with  't). 
Afore  I  come  away  from  hum  I  hed  a  strong  persuasion 
Thet  Mexicans  worn't  human  beansj — an  ourang  outang  nation, 
A  sort  o'  folks  a  chap  could  kill  an'  never  dream  on 't  arter, 
No  more  'n  a  feller  'd  dream  o'  pigs  thet  he  hed  hed  to  slarter ; 


off  a  chutch  inayby)  a  riggin1  himself  out  in  the  Weigh  they  du  and  struttiu' 
round  in  the  Reign  aspilin'  his  trowsis  and  makin'  wet  goods  of  himself.  E  fany 
thin's  foolisher  and  moor  dicklus  than  militerry  gloary  it  is  milishy  gloary. — 
H.  B. 

*  these  fellers  are  verry  proppilly  called  Hank  Heroes,  and  the  more  tha  kill 
the  ranker  and  more  Herowick  tha  bekum. — II.  B. 

t  it  wuz  "  tumblebug"  as  he  Writ  it,  but  the  parson  put  the  Latten  instid.  i 
Bed  tother  maid  better  meeter,  but  he  said  thn  was  cddykated  peepl  to  Boston 
and  tha  would  n't  stan'  it  no  how.  idnow  as  tha  wood  and  idnow  as  tha  wood. — 
H.  B. 

\  he  means  human  beins,  that's  wut  he  means,  i  spose  he  kinder  thought  tha 
wuz  human  beans  ware  the  Xisle  Poles  comes  from.— H.  B. 


622  ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT. 

I  'd  an  idee  thet  they  were  built  arter  the  darkie  fashion  all. 
An'  kickin'  colored  folks  about,  you  know,  's  a  kind  o'  national ; 
But  when  I  jined  I  worn't  so  wise  ez  thet  air  queen  o'  Sheby, 
Fer,  come  to  look  at  'em,  they  aint  much  diff 'rent  from  wut  we  be. 
An'  here  we  air  ascrougin'  'em  out  o'  thir  own  dominions, 
Ashelterin'  'em,  ez  Caleb  sez,  under  our  eagle's  pinions, 
Wich  means  to  take  a  feller  up  jest  by  the  slack  o'  's  trowsis 
An'  walk  him  Spanish  clean  right  out  o'  all  his  homes  an'  houses ; 
Wai,  it  doos  seem  a  curus  way,  but  then  hooraw  fer  Jackson ! 
It  must  be  right,  fer  Caleb  sez  it 's  reg'lar  Anglo-saxon. 
The  Mex'cans  don't  fight  fair,  they  say,  they  piz'n  all  the  water, 
An'  du  amazin'  lots  o'  things  thet  is  n't  wut  they  ough'  ter ; 
Bein'  they  haint  no  lead,  they  make  their, bullets  out  o'  copper 
An'  shoot  the  darned  things  at  us,  tu,  which  Caleb  sez  aint  proper ; 
He  sez  they  'd  ough'  to  stan'  right  up  an'  let  us  pop  'em  fairly 
(Guess  wen  he  ketches  'em  at  thet  he  '11  hev  to  git  up  airly), 
Thet  our  nation  's  bigger  'n  theirn  an'  so  its  rights  air  bigger, 
An'  thet  it 's  all  to  make  'em  free  that  we  air  pullin'  trigger, 
Thet  Anglo  Saxondom's  idee  's  abreakin'  'em  to  pieces, 
An'  thet  idee  's  thet  every  man  doos  jest  wut  he  damn  pleases ; 
Ef  I  don't  make  his  meanin'  clear,  perhaps  in  some  respex  I  can, 
I  know  that  "  every  man"  don't  mean  a  nigger  or  a  Mexican  ; 
An'  there  's  another  thing  I  know,  an'  thet  is,  ef  these  creeturs, 
Thet  stick  an  Anglo-saxon  mask  onto  State-prison  feeturs, 
Should  come  to  Jaalam  Center  fer  to  argify  an'  spout  on  't, 
The  gals  'ould  count  the  silver  spoons  the  minnit  they  cleared 
out  on  't 

This  goin'  ware  glory  waits  ye  haint  one  agreeable  feetur, 
An'  ef  it  worn't  fer  wakin'  snakes,  I  'd  home  agin  short  meter  ; 
0,  would  n't  I  be  off,  quick  time,  ef  't  worn't  thet  I  wuz  sartin 
They  'd  let  the  daylight  into  me  to  pay  me  fer  desartin ! 
I  don't  approve  o'  tellin'  tales,  but  jest  to  you  I  may  state 
Our  ossifers  aint  wut  they  wuz  afore  they  left  the  Baystate  • 
Then  it  wuz  "  Mister  Sawin,  sir,  you  're  rniddlin'  well  now,  be  ye  ? 
Step  up  an'  take  a  nipper,  sir ;  I  'm  dreffle  glad  to  see  ye ;" 
But  now  it' s  "  Ware 's   my  eppylet  ?    here,   Sawin,   step   an' 

fetch  it ! 
An'  mind  your  eye,  be  thund'rin'  spry,  or,  damn  ye,  you  shall 

ketch  it !" 

Wai,  ez  the  Doctor  sez,  some  pork  will  bile  so,  but  by  mighty, 
Ef  I  hed  some  on  'em  to  hum,  I  'd  give  'ern  linkum  vity, 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  623 

I  'd  play  the  rogue's  march  on  their  hides  an'  other  music  fol- 

lerin' 

But  I  must  close  my  letter  here,  for  one  on  'em  's  a-hollerin', 
These  Anglosaxon  ossifers — wal,  taint  no  use  ajawin', 
I  'm  safe  enlisted  fer  the  war, 

Yourn, 

BlRDOFREDOM 


A    LETTER 

FROM  A  CANDIDATE  FOR  THE  PRESIDENCY  IN  ANSWER  TO  SUTTIN 
QUESTIONS  PROPOSED  BY  MR.  HOSEA  BIGLOW,  INCLOSED  IN  A  NOTE 
FROM  MR.  BIGLOW  TO  S.  H.  GAY,  ESQ.,  EDITOR  OF  THE  NATIONAL 
ANTI-SLAVERY  STANDARD. 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

DEKR  SIB  its  gnt  to  bo  the  fashun  now  to  rite  letters  to  the  candid  8s  and  i  was 
chose  at  a  public  Mectin  in  Jalaam  to  du  wut  wus  nessary  fur  that  town,  i  writ 
to  271  ginerals  and  gut  ansers  to  200.  tha  air  called  candid  8s  but  I  don't  see 
nothin  candid  about  em.  this  here  1  which  I  send  wus  thought  satty's  factory. 
I  dunno  as  it's  ushlc  to  print  Poscrips,  but  as  all  the  ansers  I  got  hed  the  saim,  I 
sposed  it  wus  best,  times  has  gretly  changed.  Formaly  to  knock  a  man  into  a 
cocked  hat  wus  to  use  him  up,  but  now  it  ony  gives  him  a  chance  fur  the  cheef 
madgustracy. —  H.  B. 

DEAR  SIR — You  wish  to  know  my  notions 

On  sartin  pints  thet  rile  the  land ; 
There 's  nothin'  thet  my  natur  so  shuDn 

Ez  bein'  mum  or  underhand  ; 
I  'm  a  straight-spoken  kind  o'  creetur 

Thet  blurts  right  out  wut's  in  his  head, 
An'  ef  I  've  one  pecooler  feetur, 

It  is  a  nose  thet  wunt  be  led. 

So,  to  begin  at  the  beginnin' ; 

An'  come  directly  to  the  pint, 
I  think  the  country's  underpinnin' 

Is  some  consid'ble  out  o'  jint ; 
I  uint  agoin'  to  try  your  patience 

By  tellin'  who  done  this  or  thet, 
I  don't  make  no  insinooations, 

I  jest  let  on  I  smell  a  rat. 


624  ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT. 

Thet  is,  I  mean,  it  seems  to  me  so, 

But,  ef  the  public  think  I  'm  wrong, 
I  wunt  deny  but  wut  I  be  so — 

An',  fact,  it  don't  smell  very  strong ; 
My  mind  's  tu  fair  to  lose  its  balance 

An'  say  wich  party  hez  most  sense  ; 
There  may  be  folks  o'  greater  talence 

Thet  can't  set  stiddier  on  the  fence. 


I  'm  an  eclectic :  ez  to  choosin' 

'Twixt  this  an'  thet,  I  'm  plaguy  lawth  ; 
I  leave  a  side  thet  looks  like  losin', 

But  (wile  there  's  doubt)  I  stick  to  both  ; 
I  stan'  upon  the  Constitution, 

Ez  preudunt  statesmun  say,  who  've  planned 
A  way  to  git  the  most  profusion 

0'  chances  ez  to  ware  they  '11  stand. 

Ez  fer  the  war,  I  go  agin  itr- 

I  mean  to  say  I  kind  o'  du — 
Thet  is,  I  mean  thet,  bein'  in  it, 

The  best  way  wuz  to  fight  it  thru ; 
Not  but  wut  abstract  war  is  horrid, 

I  sign  to  thet  with  all  my  heart — 
But  civlyzation  doos  git  forrid 

Sometimes  upon  a  powder-cart. 

About  thet  darned  Proviso  matter 

I  never  hed  a  grain  o'  doubt, 
Nor  I  aint  one  my  sense  to  scatter 

So  's  no  one  could  n't  pick  it  out ; 
My  love  fer  North  an'  South  is  equil, 

So  I  '11  just  answer  plump  an'  frank, 
No  matter  wut  may  be  the  sequil— 

Yes,  sir,  I  am  agin  a  Bank. 

Ez  to  the  answerin'  o'  questions, 

I  'am  an  off  ox  at  bein'  druv, 
Though  I  aint  one  thet  ary  test  shuns 

:U  give  our  folks  a  helpin'  shove  ; 


ECCENTRIC     AND    NONDESCRIPT.  625 

Kind  o'  promiscoous  I  go  it 

Fer  the  holl  country,  an'  the  ground 
I  take,  ez  nigh  ez  I  can  show  it, 

Is  pooty  gen'ally  all  round. 

I  don't  appruve  o'  givin'  pledges ; 

You  'd  ough'  to  leave  a  feller  free, 
An'  not  go  knockin'  out  the  wedges 

To  ketch  his  fingers  in  the  tree ; 
Pledges  air  awfle  breachy  cattle 

Thet  preudent  farmers  don't  turn  out — 
Ez  long  'z  the  people  git  their  rattle, 

Wut  is  there  fer  'm  to  grout  about  ? 

Ez  to  the  slaves,  there  's  no  confusion 

In  my  idees  consarnin'  them — 
/  think  they  air  an  Institution, 

A  sort  of— yes,  jest  so — ahem : 
Do  /  own  any  ?     Of  my  merit 

On  thet  pint  you  yourself  may  jedge ; 
All  is,  I  never  drink  no  spent, 

Nor  I  haint  never  signed  no  pledge. 

Ez  to  my  principles,  I  glory 

In  hevin'  nothin'  o'  the  sort ; 
I  aint  a  Wig,  I  aint  a  Tory, 

I  'm  jest  a  candidate,  in  short ; 
Thet's  fair  an'  square  an'  parpendicler, 

But,  ef  the  Public  cares  a  fig 
To  hev  me  an'  thin'  in  particler, 

Wy,  I  'm  a  kind  o'  peri-wig. 

P.  S. 

Ez  we  're  a  sort  o'  privateerin', 

0'  course,  you  know,  it 's  sheer  an'  sheer, 
An'  there  is  sutthin'  wuth  your  heariii' 

I  '11  mention  in  your  privit  ear ; 
Ef  you  git  me  inside  the  White  House, 

Your  head  with  ile  I  '11  kin'  o'  'nint 
By  gittin'  you  inside  the  Light-house 

Down  to  the  eend  o'  Jaalam  Pint 
27 


C2G  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

An'  ez  the  North  hez  took  to  brustlin' 

At  bein'  scrouged  frum  off  the  roost, 
I  '11  tell  ye  wut  '11  save  all  tusslin' 

An'  give  our  side  a  harnsome  boost — 
Tell  'em  thet  on  the  Slavery  question 

I  'm  RIGHT,  although  to  speak  I  'm  lawth  ; 
This  gives  you  a  safe  pint  to  rest  on, 

An'  leaves  me  frontin'  South  by  North. 


THE    CANDIDATE'S    CREED. 

(BIGLOW  PAPERS.) 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
I  DU  believe  in  Freedom's  cause,  . 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Paris  is ; 
I  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Pharisees ; 
It 's  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  and  triggers, — 
But  libbaty  's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  and  coffees, 
Thet  nothin'  aint  extravygunt, — 

Purvidin'  I  'm  in  office ; 
For  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

0'  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes : 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an'  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote — and  keep  us  in 

Our  quiet  custom-houses. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  627 

T  du  believe  it 's  wise  an'  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions ; — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan'  more  fer  outfit, 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

O'  prayin'  an'  convartin' ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin ; — 
I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 

On  wut  the  party  chooses, 
An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 

To  very  privit  uses. 

I  do  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on ; 
The  people  's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on  ; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pcrvides  fer  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all — 
I  don't  care  how  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine 's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom, 
To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em  : 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin' ! 

[  du  believe  thet  I  should  give 

Wut 's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
Fer  it 's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

From  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air ; 


628  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  souperscription, — 

Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 
An'  tilings  o'  thet  description. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grantin' 
0'  jobs — in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  CANTIN'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest — 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But,  0,  I  du  in  interest. 

I  du  believe  in  bein'  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way,  or  t'  other  hendiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin' ; 
It  aint  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudent  course  is  steadied — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

G-o  into  it  baldheaded. 


I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  tu  a  President, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  have  a  wal-broke  precedunt ; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  could  'nt  ax  with  no  face, 
Without  I  'd  been,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

The  unrizziest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness, — 
Thet  we  the  Mexicans  can  thrash 

Right  inter  brotherly  kindness — 
Thet  bombshells,  grape,  an'  powder  'n'  oall 

Air  good-will's  strongest  magnets — 
Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 

Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  629 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it 's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  hev  a  solid  vally ; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pasturs  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this  '11  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  have  fed  me. 


THE    COURTIN'. 

JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

ZEKLE  crep'  up,  quite  unbeknown, 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder, 
An  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

Agin'  the  chimbly  crooknecks  hung, 

An'  in  among  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's  arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  wannut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Toward  the  pootiest,  bless  her  1 
An'  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  wuz  in, 

Looked  warm  frum  floor  to  ceilin*. 
An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 

Ez  th'  apple  she  wuz  peelin'. 

She  heerd  a  foot  an'  knowd  it,  tu, 

Araspin'  on  the  scraper — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  of  the  seekle : 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pitypat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zokle. 


630  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

A    SONG    FOR    A    CATARRH. 

PUNOB 

By  7?ary  AZZe  is  like  the  suZ, 

Whel  at  the  dawZ  it  fliZgs 
Its  goldeZ  s&iles  of  light  upoZ 

Earth's  greeZ  and  lofcly  thiZgs. 
II  vaiZ  I  sue,  I  oZly  wiZ 

Frob  her  a  scorZful  frowZ, 
But  sool  as  I  by  prayers  begiZ, 

She  cries  0  lo !  bego?e, 
Yes !  yes !  the  burtheZ  of  her  soZg 

IsZo!  to!  to!  begote! 

^y  J5ary  Alle  is  like  the  mooZ, 

Whel  first  her  silver  sheeZ 
Awakes  the  ZightiZgale's  soft  tuZe, 

That  else  had  sileZt  beeZ. 
But  ^ary  AZ/e,  like  darkest  Zight, 

OZ  be,  alas !  looks  dowZ/ 
Her  s&iles  oZ  others  bea&  their  light, 

Her  frowfe  are  all  by  owl. 
I  Ve  but  oZe  burtheZ  to  by  soZg — 

Her  frowZs  are  all  by  owl 


EPITAPH    ON    A    CANDLE. 

PUNCH. 

A  wicked  one  lies  buried  here, 

Who  died  in  a  decline  ; 
He  never  rose  in  rank,  I  fear, 

Though  he  was  born  to  shine. 

He  once  was/atf,  but  now,  indeed, 

He 's  thin  as  any  griever ; 
He  died — the  Doctors  all  agreed, 

Of  a  most  burning  fever. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  631 

One  thing  of  him  is  said  with  truth, 

With  which  I  'm  much  amused  ; 
It  is — that  when  he  stood,  forsooth, 

A  stick  he  always  used. 

Now  ivinding-sheets  he  sometimes  made, 

But  this  was  not  enough, 
For  finding  it  a  poorish  trade, 

He  also  dealt  in  snuff. 

If  e'er  you  said  "  Go  out,  I  pray," 

He  much  ill  nature  show'd  ; 
On  such  occasions  he  would  say, 

"  Yy,  if  I  do,  I'm  bhw'd" 

In  this  his  friends  do  all  agree, 

Although  you  '11  think  I  'm  joking, 
When  going  out  'tis  said  that  he 

Was  very  fond  of  smoking. 

Since  all  religion  he  despised, 

Let  these  few  words  suffice, 
Before  he  ever  was  baptized 

They  dipped  him  once  or  twice. 


POETRY   ON   AN   IMPROVED   PRINCIPLE. 

A   RENCONTER   WITH   A   TEA-TOTALLER. 

PUNCH. 

ON  going  forth  last  night,  a  friend  to  see, 

I  met  a  man  by  trade  a  s-n-o-&  / 

Reeling  along  the  path  he  held  his  way. 

"  Ho !  ho  1"  quoth  I,  "  he 's  d-r-u-n-fc." 

Then  thus  to  him — "  Were  it  not  better,  far, 

You  were  a  little  s-o-b-e-r  ? 

'T  were  happier  for  your  family,  I  guess, 

Than  playing  of  such  rum  r-i-g-s. 

Besides,  all  drunkards,  when  policemen  see  'em, 

Are  taken  up  at  once  by  t-h-e-ra." 


632  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

"  Me  drunk  I"  the  cobbler  cried.  "  the  devil  trouble  you  I 

You  want  to  kick  up  a  blest  r-o-if. 

Now,  may  I  never  wish  to  work  for  Hoby, 

If  drain  I  've  had  !"  (the  lying  s-n-o-i  /) 

I  Ve  just  return'd  from  a  tee-total  party, 

Twelve  on  us  jamm'd  in  a  spring  c-a-r-t. 

The  man  as  lectured,  now,  was  drunk ;  why,  bless  ye, 

He 's  sent  home  in  a  c-h-a-i-s-e. 

He  'd  taken  so  much  lush  into  his  belly, 

I  'm  blest  if  he  could  t-o-dd-Z-e. 

A  pair  on  'em — hisself  and  his  good  lady ; — 

The  gin  had  got  into  her  h-e-a-d. 

(My  eye  and  Betty  !  what  weak  mortals  we  are ; 

They  said  they  took  but  ginger  b-e-e-r  /) 

But  as  for  me,  I  've  stuck  ('t  was  rather  ropy) 

All  day  to  weak  imperial  p-o-p. 

And  now  we  've  had  this  little  bit  o'  sparrin', 

Just  stand  a  q-u-a-r-t-e-r-n  /" 


ON    A    REJECTED    NOSEGAY, 

OFFERED    BY    THE    AUTHOR    TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   YOUNG   LADY,  WHO 
RETURNED    IT. 

PUNCH. 

WHAT  !  then  you  won't  accept  it,  wont  you  ?     Oh  ! 

No  matter ;  pshaw !  my  heart  is  breaking,  though. 

My  bouquet  is  rejected  ;  let  it  be  : 

For  what  am  I  to  you,  or  you  to  me  ? 

'Tis  true  I  once  had  hoped ;  but  now,  alas  ! 

Well,  well ;  'tis  over  now,  and  let  it  pass. 

I  was  a  fool — perchance  I  am  so  still ; 

You  won't  accept  it !  Let  me  dream  you  will : 

But  that  were  idle.     Shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Why  should  we  ?     Water  for  my  burning  brain  ? 

I  could  have  loved  thee — Could  !     I  love  thee  yet ; 

Can  only  Lethe  teach  me  to  forget  ? 

Oblivion's  balm,  oh  tell  me  where  to  find  ! 

Is  it  a  tenant  of  the  anguish' d  mind  ? 

Or  is  it  ? — ha !  at  last  I  see  it  come  ; 

Waiter  I  a  bottle  of  your  oldest  rum. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  633 

A    SERENADE. 

PUNCH. 

SMILE,  lady,  smile  I  (Bless  me  !  what 's  that  ? 
Confound  the  cat  /) — 
Smile,  lady,  smile  !     One  glance  bestow 
On  him  who  sadly  waits  below, 
To  catch — (A  villain  up  above 
Has  thrown  some  water  on  me,  love  /) 
To  catch  one  token — 
(  Oh,  Lord  !  my  head  is  broken  j 
The  wretch  who  threw  the  water  down, 
Has  dropped  the  jug  upon  my  crown)— 
To  catch  one  token,  which  shall  be 
As  dear  as  life  itself  to  me. 
List,  lady,  then ;  while  on  my  lute 
I  breathe  soft — (No  !  I'll  not  be  quid  ; 
How  dare  you  call  my  serenade  a  riot  ? 
I  do  defy  you) — while  upon  my  lute 
I  breathe  soft  sighs — (Fes,  I  dispute 
Tour  right  to  stop  me — breathe  soft  sighs. 
Grant  but  one  look  from  those  dear  eyes — 
(TJiere,  take  that  stupid  noddle  in  again; 
Call  the  police  I — do  !  I'll  prolong  my  strain), 
We  '11  wander  by  the  river's  placid  flow — 
(Unto  the  station-house  ! — No,  sir,  I  won't  go  ; 
Leave  me  alone  /) — and  talk  of  love's  delight. 
(Oh,  murder  I—help  !  I'm  locked  up  for  the  night  I) 


RAILROAD    NURSERY    RH\ME. 

PUNCH. 
Ride  a  Coc.k  Horse." 


FLY  by  steam  force  the  country  across, 
Faster  than  jockey  outside  a  race-horse  : 
With  time  bills  mismanaged,  fast  trains  after  slow, 
You  shall  have  danger  wherever  you  go. 
27* 


034  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 


AN  INVITATION  TO  THE  ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS. 

PUNCH. 

I  HAVE  found  out  a  gig-gig-gift  for  my  fuf-fuf-fair, 

I  have  found  where  the  rattle-snakes  bub-bub-breed ; 

Will  you  co-co-come,  and  I  '11  show  you  the  bub-bub-bear, 
And  the  lions  and  tit-tit-tigers  at  fuf-fuf-feed. 

I  know  where  the  co-co-cockatoo's  song 

Makes  mum-mum-melody  through  the  sweet  vale  ; 

Where  the  mum-monkeys  gig-gig-grin  all  the  day  long 
Or  gracefully  swing  by  the  tit-tit-tit-tail. 

You  shall  pip-pip-play,  dear,  some  did-did-delicate  joke 

With  the  bub-bub-bear  on  the  tit-tit-top  of  Ms  pip-pip-pip- 
pole; 
But  observe,  'tis  forbidden  to  pip-pip-poke 

At  the  bub-bub-bear  with  your  pip-pip-pink  pip-pip-pip-pip- 
parasol  ! 

You  shall  see  the  huge  elephant  pip-pip-play, 

You  shall  gig-gig-gaze  on  the  stit-stit-stately  racoon ; 

And  then  did-did-dear,  together  we  '11  stray 

To  the  cage  of  the  bub-bub-blue-faced  bab-bab-boon. 

You  wished  (I  r-r-remember  it  well, 

And  I  lul-lul-loved  you  the  m-m-more  for  the  wish) 

To  witness  the  bub-bub-beautiful  pip-pip-pel 
ican  swallow  the  1-1-ive  little  fuf-fuf-fish  ! 


TO    0E    AEAAINT    HEPIOAIKAA.* 

PUNCH. 

Qif  KOfiTrTiijuevT,  ypear  oip,  o  raKf , 
Tpe  a  fipiK  avd  vo  JUIGTCIKF, 
ro  KO.VT  avd  <j>vdye. 
TO  Bee  1  ve'ep  (3eypvdye, 
I  d)Tre  TO  aee  vpe  vafie 

iv  6t  AtoTf  o^  $a.[ie. 

To/*  2/a0,  Tpv/3  aTpeeT 

English  wordfl  in  Greek  letters. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  035 

THE   PEOPLE   AND   THEIR    PALACE. 

IMPROVISED    BY   A   FINE    GENTLEMAN. 

PUNCH. 

OH  dem  that  absawd  Cwystal  Palace  I  alas, 
What  a  pity  they  took  off  the  duty  on  glass ! 
It 's  having  been  evaw  ewected,  in  fact, 
Was  en-ti-a-ly  owing  to  that  foolish  act. 

Wha-evew  they  put  it  a  cwowd  it  will  dwaw, 
And  that  is  the  weason  I  think  it  a  baw  ; 
I  have  no  gweat  dislike  to  the  building,  as  sutch ; 
The  People  is  what  I  object  to  sa  mutch. 

The  People  ! — I  weally  am  sick  of  the  wawd  : 
The  People  is  ugly,  unpleasant,  absawd ; 
Wha-evaw  they  go,  it  is  always  the  case, 
They  are  shaw  to  destroy  all  the  chawm  of  the  place. 

Their  voices  are  loud,  and  their  laughter  is  hawse ; 
Their  featyaws  are  fabsy,  iwegulaw,  cause ; 
How  seldom  it  is  that  their  faces  disclose, 
What  one  can  call,  pwopally  speaking,  a  nose ! 

They  have  dull  heavy  looks,  which  appeaw  to  expwess 
Disagweeable  stwuggles  with  common  distwess ; 
The  People  can't  dwess,  does  n't  know  how  to  walk, 
And  would  uttaly  wuin  a  spot  like  the  Pawk. 

That  I  hate  the  People  is  maw  than  I  '11  say ; 
I  only  would  have  them  kept  out  of  my  way, 
Let  them  stay  at  the  pot-house,  wejoice  in  the  pipe, 
And  wegale  upon  beeaw,  baked  patatas,  and  twipe. 

We  must  have  the  People — of  that  tha  's  no  doubt — 
In  shawt  they  could  not  be,  pahaps,  done  without. 
If  'twa  not  faw  the  People  we  could  not  have  Boots. 
Tha 's  no  doubt  that  they  exawcise  useful  pasuits. 

They  are  all  vewy  well  in  their  own  pwopa  spheeaw, 
A  long  distance  off;  but  I  don't  like  them  neeaw; 


636  ECCENTRIC     AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

The  slams  is  the  place  faw  a  popula  show ; 

Don't  encouwage  the  people  to  spoil  Wotten  Wow. 

It  is  odd  that  the  DUKE  OF  AWGYLL  could  pasue, 
So  eccentwic  a  cawse,  and  LAD  SHAFTESBUWY  too, 
As  to  twy  and  pwesawve  the  Glass  House  on  its  site, 
Faw  no  weason  on  awth  but  the  People's  delight. 


A  "SWELL'S"  HOMAGE  TO  MRS.  STOWE 

PUNCH. 

A  MUST  wead  Uncle  Tom — a  wawk 
Which  A  'in  afwaid  's  extwemely  slow, 

People  one  meets  begin  to  talk 
Of  Mrs.  HARWIETBEECHASTOWE. 

'Tis  not  as  if  A  saw  ha  name 

To  walls  and  windas  still  confined ; 

All  that  is  meawly  vulga  fame  : 
A  don't  wespect  the  public  mind. 

But  Stafla'd  House  has  made  haw  quite 

Anotha  kind  a  pawson  look, 
A  Countess  would  pasist,  last  night, 

In  asking  me  about  haw  book. 

She  wished  to  know  if  I  admiawd 

EVA,  which  quite  confounded  me ; 
And  then  haw  Ladyship  inqwaw'd 

Whethaw  A  did  'nt  hate  LEGWEE  ? 

Bai  JOVE  !     A  was  completely  flaw'd  ; 

A  wish'd  myself,  or  haw,  at  Fwance  ; 
And  that 's  the  way  a  fella  's  baw'd 

By  ev'wy  gal  he  asks  to  dance. 

A  felt  myself  a  gweat  a  fool 

Than  A  had  evaw  felt  befaw ; 
A  '11  study  at  some  Wagged  School 

The  tale  of  that  old  Blackamaw ! 


ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT.  637 

THE    EXCLUSIVE'S    BROKEN    IDOL. 

PUNCH. 
A  DON'T  object  at  all  to  War 

With  a  set  a  fellas  like  the  Fwench, 
But  this  dem  wupcha  with  the  Czar, 

It  gives  one's  feeling  quite  a  wench. 

The  man  that  peace  in  Yawwup  kept 

Gives  all  his  pwevious  life  the  lie ; 
A  fina  fella  neva  stepped, 

Bai  JOVK,  he  's  maw  than  six  feet  high ! 

He  cwushed  those  democwatic  beasts ; 

He  'd  flog  a  Nun ;  maltweat  a  Jew, 
Or  pawsecute  those  Womish  Pwiests, 

Most  likely  vewy  pwoppa  too. 

To  think  that  afta  such  a  eawce, 

Which  nobody  could  eva  blame, 
The  EMP'WA  should  employ  bwute  fawce 

Against  this  countwy  just  the  same  ! 

We  all  cousida'd  him  our  fvviend, 

But  in  a  most  erwoneus  light, 
In  shawt,  it  seems  you  can't  depend 

On  one  who  fancies  might  is  wight. 

His  carwacta  is  coming  out ; 

His  motives — which  A  neva  saw — 
Are  now  wevealed  beyond  a  doubt, 

And  we  must  fight — but  what  a  baw  ! 


THE   LAST    KICK    OF   FOP'S    ALLEY. 

PUNCH. 
AIB—  "Weber' a  Last  Waltz." 

MY  wawst  feaws  are  wealized ;  the  Op'wa  is  na  maw, 
And  the  wain  of  DONIZETTI  and  TAPISCHOWE  are  aw ! 
No  entapwising  capitalist  bidding  faw  the  lot, 
In  detail  at  last  the  pwopaty  is  being  sold  by  SCOTT. 


638  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

Fahwell  to  Anna  Bolena  ;  to  Nauma,  oh,  fall  well ! 
Adieu  to  La  Sonnambula,  I  the  hamma  wings  haw  knell; 
/  Puwitani,  too,  must  cease  a  cwowded  house  to  dwaw, 
And  they  've  knocked  down  lovely  Lima,  the  JBwide  of  Lamma- 
maw. 

Fahwell  the  many  twinkling  steps ;  fahwell  the  gwaceful  fawm 
That  bounded  o'er  the  wose-beds,  and  that  twipped  amid  the 

stawm; 
Fahwell  the  gauze  and  muslin— doomed  to  load  the  Hebwew's 

bags; 
Faw  the  Times  assauts  the  wawdwobe  went — just  fancy — as  old 

wags! 

That  ev'wy  thing  that's  bwight  must  fade,  we  know  is  vewy  twue, 
And  now  we  see  what  sublunawy  glowwy  must  come  to ; 
How  twue  was  MAIDSTONE'S  pwophecy ;  the  Deluge  we  behold 
Now  that  HAW  MAJESTY'S  Theataw  is  in  cawse  of  being  sold. 


THE  MAD  CABMAN'S  SONG  OF  SIXPENCE* 

PUNCH. 

WOT  's  this  ? — wot  never  is  this  'ere  ? 

Eh  ? — arf  a  suvrin ! — feels  like  vun — 
Boohoo  !  they  won't  let  me  have  no  beer  I 
Suppose  I  chucks  it  up  into  the  sun ! — 
No — that  ain't  right — 
The  yaller  's  turned  wite ! 
Ha,  ha,  ho ! — he 's  sold  and  done — 
Come,  I  say ! — I  won't  stand  that — 

'Tis  all  my  eye  and  BETTY  MARTIN  ! 
Over  the  left  and  all  round  my  hat, 

As  the  pewter  pot  said  to  the  kevarten. 

Who  am  I  ?     HEMPRER  of  the  FRENCH 

LEWIS  NAPOLEON  BONYPART, 

Old  Spooney,  to  be  sure — 
Between  you  and  me  and  the  old  blind  oss 

And  the  doctor  says  there  ain't  no  cure. 

*  This  inimitable  burlesque  was  published  soon  after  the  cab  fare  had  been  re 
duced  from  eightpence  to  sixpence  a  mile. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  039 

\ 

D'  ye  think  I  care  for  the  blessed  Bench  ? — 
From  Temple  Bar  to  Charing  Cross  ? 
Two  mile  and  better — arf  a  crown — 
Talk  of  screwing  a  feller  down ! 
As  for  poor  BILL,  it 's  broke  his  art. 

Cab  to  the  Moon,  sir  ?     Here  you  are ! — 
That 's — how  much  ? — 
A  farthin'  touch ! 
Now  as  we  can't  demand  back  fare. 

But,  guv'ner,  wot  can  this  'ere  be  ? — 

The  fare  of  a  himperial  carridge  ? 
You  don't  mean  all  this  'ere  for  me  ! 

In  course  you  ain't  heerd  about  my  marridge — 

I  feels  so  precious  keveer  ! 
How  was  it  I  got  that  kick  o'  the  'ed  ? 

I  've  ad  a  slight  hindisposition 

But  a  Beak  ain't  no  Physician. 
Wot 's  this  'ere,  sir  ?  wot 's  this  'ere  ? 

You  call  yerself  a  gentleman  ?  yer  Snob  I 

He  was  n't  bled  : 
And  I  was  let  in  for  forty  bob, 

Or  a  month,  instead  : 
And  I  caught  the  lumbago  in  the  brain — 

I  've  been  confined — 

But  never  you  mind — 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho !     I  ain't  hinsane. 

Vot  his  this  'ere  ?     Can't  no  one  tell  ? 

It  sets  my  ed  a  spinnin — 
The  QUEEN'S  eye  winks — it  ain't  no  sell — 
The  QUEEN'S  'ed  keeps  a  grinnin  : 

Ha,  ha !  't  was  guv 

By  the  cove  I  druv — 
I  vunders  for  wot  e  meant  it  I 

For  e  sez  to  me, 

E  sez,  sez  e, 

As  I  ort  to  be  contented  ! 
Wot  did  yer  say,  sir,  wot  did  yer  say  ? 

My  fare  ! — wot,  that ! 

Yer  knocks  me  flat. 

Hit  in  the  vind ! — I  'in  chokin — give  us  air — 
My  fare  ?    Ha,  ha !    My  fare  ?    Ho,  ho !    My  fare  ? 


640  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 

Call  that  my  fare  for  drivin  yer  a  mile  ? 
I  ain't  hinsane — not  yet — not  yet  avile  ! 

Wot  makes  yer  smile  ? 
My  blood  is  bilin'  in  a  wiolent  manner  ! 

Wot 's  this  I  've  got  ? 

Show  us  a  light — 

This  'ere  is — wot  ? — 
There 's  sunthin  the  matter  with  my  sight — 

It  is — yes  ! — No ! — 

'Tis,  raly,  though — - 

Oh,  blow !  blow  I  blow  !— 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  it  is,  it  is  a  Tanner  !* 


ALARMING    PROSPECT 

PUNCH. 

To  the  Editor  of  "  PUNCH." 

SIB — You  are  aware,  of  course,  that  in  the  progress  of  a  few  centuries  the  lan 
guage  of  a  country  undergoes  a  great  alteration  ;  that  the  Latin  of  the  Augustan 
age  was  very  different  from  that  of  the  time  of  Tarquin ;  and  no  less  so  from  that 
which  prevailed  at  the  fall  of  the  Roman  empire.  Also,  that  the  Queen's  English 
is  not  precisely  what  it  was  in  Elizabeth's  days;  to  say  nothing  of  its  variation 
from  what  was  its  condition  under  the  Plantagenets. 

I  observe,  with  regret,  that  our  literature  is  becoming  conversational,  and  our 
conversation  coxnipt.  The  use  of  cant  phraseology  is  daily  gaining  ground  among 
us,  and  this  evil  will  speedily  infect,  if  it  has  not  already  infected,  the  productions 
of  our  men  of  letters.  I  fear  most  for  our  poetry,  because  what  is  vulgarly  termed 
slang  is  unfortunately  very  expressive,  and  therefore  peculiarly  adapted  for  the 
purposes  of  those  whose  aim  it  is  to  clothe  "thoughts  that  breathe"  in  "words 
that  burn;"  and,  besides,  it  is  in  many  instances  equivalent  to  terms  and  forms 
of  speech  which  have  long  been  recognized  among  poetical  writers  as  a  kind  of 
current  coin. 

The  peril  which  I  anticipate  I  have  endeavored  to  exemplify  in  the  following 

AFFECTING   COPY   OF   VERSES   (WITH   NOTES). 

GENTLY  o'er  the  meadows  prigging,' 

Joan  and  Colin  took  their  way, 
While  each  flower  the  dew  was  swigging,* 

In  the  jocund  month  of  May. 

Joan  was  beauty's  plummiust3  daughter ; 

Colin  youth's  most  nutty4  son ; 
Many  a  nob5  in  vain  had  sought  her — 

Him  full  many  a  spicy6  one. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  G41 

She  her  faithful  bosom's  jewel 

Did  unto  this  young  un'7  plight; 
But,  alas !  the  gov'nor8  cruel, 

Said  as  how  he  'd  never  fight.* 

Soon  as  e'er  the  lark  had  risen, 

They  had  burst  the  bonds  of  snooze,10 
And  her  daddle"  link'd  in  his'n,12 

Gone  to  roam  as  lovers  use. 

In  a  crack13  the  youth  and  maiden 

To  a  flowery  bank  did  come, 
Whence  the  bees  cut,"  honey-laden, 

Not  without  melodious  hum. 

Down  they  squatted16  them  together, 

"  Lovely  Joan,"  said  Colin  bold, 
"  Tell  me,  on  thy  davy,10  whether 

Thou  dost  dear  thy  Colin  hold  ?" 

"  Don't  I,  just  ?""  with  look  ecstatic, 

Cried  the  young  and  ardent  maid ; 
"  Then  let 's  bolt  !"18  in  tone  emphatic, 

Bumptuous19  Colin  quickly  said. 

"  Bolt  ?"  she  falter'd,  "  from  the  gov'nor  ? 

Oh  !  my  Colin,  that  won't  pay  ;20 
He  will  ne'er  come  down,21  my  love,  nor 

Help  us,  if  we  run  away." 

"  Shall  we  then  be  disunited  ?" 

Wildly  shrieked  the  frantic  cove  ;22 
"  Mull'd28  our  happiness !  and  blighted 

In  the  kinchin-bud24  our  love  1 

"  No,  my  tulip  !25  let  us  rather 

Hand  in  hand  the  bucket  kick  ;26 
Thus  we  '11  chouse'27  your  cruel  father — 

Cutting  from  the  world  our  stick  !"2S 

Thus  he  spoke,  and  pull'd  a  knife  out, 

Sharp  of  point,  of  edge  full  fine  ; 
Pierc'd  her  heart,  and  let  the  life  out — 

"  Now,"  he  cried,  "  here 's  into  mine  I"29 


642  ECCENTRIC    AND     NONDESCRIPT. 

But  a  hand  unseen  behind  him 

Did  the  fatal  blow  arrest. 
Oh,  my  eye  !30  they  seize  and  bind  him — 

Gentle  Muse,  conceal  the  rest ! 

In  the  precints  of  the  prison, 

In  his  cold  crib31  Colin  lies ; 
Mourn  his  fate  all  you  who  listen, 

Draw  it  mild,  and  mind  your  eyes  !35 

1.  "  Prigging,"  stealing ;  as  yet  exclusively  applied  to  petty  larceny.     "  Steal- 
Ing"  is  as  well  known  to  be  a  poetical  term  as  it  is  to  be  an  indictable  oftense ; 
tbe  Zephyr  and  the  Vesper  Hymn,  cum  multis  aliis,  are  very  prone  to  this 
practice. 

2.  "  Swigging,"  drinking  copiously — of  malt  liquor  in  particular.      "  Pearly 
drops  of  dew  we  drink." — OLD  SONG. 

3.  "  Plummiest,"  the  superlative  of  "plummy,"  exquisitely  delicious;  an  epi 
thet  commonly  used  by  young  gentlemen  in  speaking  of  a  bonne  bouche  or  u  tit 
bit,"  as  a  mince  pie,  a  preserved  apricot,  or  an  oyster  patty.     The  transference 
of  terms  expressive  of  delightful  and  poignant  savor  to  female  beauty,  is  common 
with  poets.     "  Death,  that  hath  sucked  the  honey  of  thy  breath."— SUAKSPEABE. 
"  Charley  loves  a  pretty  girl,  as  siceet  as  sugar  candy." — ANON. 

4.  "  Nutty,"  proper — in  the  old  English  sense  of  "  comely,"  "  handsome."  "  Six 
proper  youths,  and  talL" — OLD  SONG. 

5.  "  Nob,"  a  person  of  consequence ;  a  word  very  likely  to  be  patronized,  from 
its  combined  brevity  and  significancy. 

6.  "  Spicy,"  very  smart  and  pretty ;  it  has  the  same  recommendation,  and  will 
probably  supplant  the  old  favorite  "  bonny."     "  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny, 
bonny  bride." — HAMILTON. 

7.  "  Young  'un,"  youth,  young  man.     "A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  un 
known." — GRAY. 

8.  "  Gov'nor,"  or  "guv'nor,"  a  contraction  of  "governor,"  a  father.     It  will, 
no  doubt,  soon  supersede  sire,  which  is  at  present  the  poetical  equivalent  for  the 
name  of  the  author  of  one's  existence.     See  all  the  poets,  passim. 

9.  "  Said  as  how  he'd  never  fight,"  the  thing  was  out  of  the  question;  a  meta 
phorical  phrase,  though  certainly,  at  present,  a  vulgar  one. 

10.  "  Snooze,"  slumber  personified,  like  "  Morpheus,"  or  "  Somnus." 

11.  "Daddle." — Q.  from  (5d/cri)Aoj,  a  finger — pars  pro  totof — Hand,  the  only 
synonym  for  it  that  we  have,  except  "  Paw,"  "  Mawley,"  &c.,  which  are  decidedly 
generis  ejundem. 

12.  "  His'n,"  his  own;  corresponding  to  the  Latin  suus,  his  own  and  nobody 
else's,  so  frequently  met  with  iu  OVID  and  others. 

13.  "  Crack,"  a  twinkling,  an  extremely  short  interval  of  time,  which  was  for 
merly  expressed,  in  general,  by  a  periphrasis;  as,  "  Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a 
league !"— SUAKBPEARE. 

14.  "  Cut,"  sped.     A  synonym. 

15.  "  Squatted,"  sat.     Id. 

16.  "  Davy,"  affidavit,  solemn  oath.     Significant  and  euphonious,  therefore  al 
luring  to  the  versifier. 

17.  "  Don't  I,  just?"  A  question  for  a  strong  affirmation,  as,  "  Oh,  yes,  indeed  I 
do ;"  a  piece  of  popular  rhetoric,  pithy  and  forcible  and  consequently  almost  sure 
to  be  adopted— especially  by  the  pathetic  writers. 


ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT.  643 

18.  "  Bolt,"  run  away.     Syn. 

19.  "  Bumptious,"  fearless,  bold,  and  spirited ;  a  very  energetic  expression ; 
such  as  those  rejoice  in  who  would  fair  "  DenJiam's  strength  with  Waller's  sweet 
ness  join." 

20.  "  That  won't  pay,"  that  plan  will  never  answer.     Metaph. 

21.  "Comedown,"  disburse;  also  rendered  in  the  vernacular  by  "fork  out," 
etc.     Id. 

22.  "Cove,"  swain.     " Alexis  sh turn' d  his  fellow  swains." — PBIOK.     See  also 
SIIENSTONE  passim. 

23.  "  Mull'd,"  equivalent  to  "  wreck' d,"  a  term  of  pathos. 

24.  "  Kinchin-bud,"  infant-bud.     Metaph. ;  moreover,  very  tender,  sweet,  and 
touching,  as  regards  the  idea. 

25.  "  My  tulip,"  a  term  of  endearment  "  Fairest  flower,  all  flowers  excelling." 
Ode  to  a  Child:  COTTON. 

26.  "  The  bucket  kick,"  pleonasm  for  die  ;  as,  "  to  breathe  life's  latest  sigh." — 
"  To  yield  the  soul," — u  the  breath," — or,  ut  apud  antiq.  "  Animam  expirare," 
seu  "elHare,"  etc. 

27.  "  Chouse,"  cheat     Syn. 

28.  "  Cutting    .     .     .     our  stick."     Pleon.  ut  supra. 

29.  "  Here's  unto  mine!"     A  form  of  speech  analogous  to  "  Have  at  thee." — 
SHAKSPEAEE,  and  the  dramatists  generally. 

30.  "Oh,  my  eye!"  an  interjectional  phrase,  tantamount  to  "  Oh,  heavens !" 
"Merciful  powers!"  etc. 

31.  "  Cold  crib,"  cold  bed.     "  Go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  warm  thee." — SHAK. 

32.  "  Draw  it  mild,"  etc.     Metaph.  for  "  Rule  your  passions,  and  beware!" 

I  doubt  not  that  it  will  be  admitted  by  your  judicious  readers  that  I  have  sub 
stantiated  my  case.  Our  monarchical  institutions  may  preserve  our  native  tongue 
for  a  time,  but  if  it  docs  not  become,  at  no  very  distant  period,  as  strange  a  med 
ley  as  that  of  the  American  is  at  present — to  use  the  expressive  but  peculiar  idiom 
of  that  people — "  ifs  a  pity." 

I  ain,  sir,  etc.,  P. 


EPITAPH    ON    A    LOCOMOTIVE. 

BY  THE    SOLE    SURVIVOR    OF  A  DEPLORABLE    ACCIDENT  (NO    BLAME    TO 
BE   ATTACHED    TO    ANY    SERVANTS    OF    THE    COMPANY). 

PUNCH. 

COLLISIONS  four 

Or  five  she  bore, 
The  Signals  wor  in  vain; 

Grown  old  and  rusted, 

Her  biler  busted, 
And  smash' d  the  Excursion  Train. 

"  HER   END    WAS    PIECES." 


644  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT. 


THE    TICKET    OF    LEAVE. 

[AS    SUNG   BY    THE    HOLDER,  AMID    A    CONVIVIAL    CIRCLE    IN    TITE 
SLUMS.] 

PUNCH. 

VEN  a  prig  has  come  to  grief, 

He 's  no  call  for  desperation  ; 
Though  I  'm  a  conwicted  thief, 

Still  I  've  opes  of  liberation. 
The  Reverend  Chapling  to  deceive 

A  certain  dodge  and  safe  resource  is, 
Whereby  you  gets  a  Ticket  of  Leave, 

And  then  resumes  your  wicious  courses. 

(Spoken.)  I  vos  lagged,  my  beloved  pals,  on  a  suspicion  of  burglary,  'ad  up 
afore  the  Recorder,  and  got  seven  years'  penal  servitude  and  'ard  labor.  Hand 
preshus  'ard  labor  and  'ard  lines  I  found  it  at  first,  mind  you.  Veil,  I  says  to 
myself,  blow  me  1  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  stand  tliis  'ere,  you  know ;  but  'taint  no  use 
kickin'  agin  stone  walls  and  iron  spikes:  wot  I  shall  try  and  do  is  to  gammon 
the  parson. 

"  Ven  a  prig,"  etc. 

Them  parsons  is  so  jolly  green, 

They  're  sure  to  trust  in  your  conwersion, 
Which  they,  in  course,  believes  'as  been 

The  consequence  of  their  exertion. 
You  shakes  your  'ead,  turns  up  your  eyes, 

And  they  takes  that  to  be  repentance  ; 
Wherein  you  moans,  and  groans,  and  sighs, 

By  reason  only  of  your  sentence. 

(Spoken.)  Wen  in  a  state  of  wiolent  prespiration  smokin'  'ot  from  the  crank, 
the  Chapling  comes  into  my  cell,  and  he  says,  says  he,  "  My  man,"  he  says, 
"how  do  you  foci?"  "'Appy,  sir,"  says  I,  with  a  gentle  sithe;  "thank  you, 
sir:  quite 'appy."  "But  you  seem  distressed,  my  poor  fellow,"  says  he.  "In 
body,  sir,"  says  I;  "yes.  But  that  makes  me  more 'appy.  I'm  glad  to  be 
distressed  in  body.  It  serves  me  right.  But  in  mind  I'm 'appy:  leastways 
almost 'appy."  " 'Ave  you  hany  wish  to  express,"  says  he;  "  is  there  any  re 
quest  as  you  would  like  to  make."  "'AWKEE'S  Heveniny  Potion,  sir,"  says  I, 
"and  the  Dai rifinan" 8  Daughter:  if  'AWKEE'S  Ilevening  Potion  was  but  mine— 
and  the  Dairyman's  Daughter— I  think,  sir,  I  should  be  quite 'appy."  "My 
friend,"  says  the  parson,  "your  desire  shall  be  attended  to,"  and  hout  he 
valked :  me  a  takiu'  a  sight  at  'im  be'iud  'is  back ;  for  as  soon  as  I  thought  he 
wos  out  of  'eariu',  sings  I  to  myself — 

"  Yen  a  prig,"  etc 

In  the  chapel  hof  the  Jug, 

Then  I  did  the  meek  and  lowly, 


ECCENTRIC     AND    NONDESCRIPT.  045 

Pullin'  sitch  a  spoony  mug 

That  I  looked  unkimmon  pure  and  'oly. 

As  loud  as  ever  I  could  shout, 
All  the  responses  too  I  hutter'd, 

Well  knowing  what  I  was  about : 
So  the  reverend  Gent  I  buttered. 

(Spoken.)  Won  day  he  comes  to  me  arter  service,  and  axes  me  what  I  thought 
I  could  do  for  myself  in  the  way  of  yarnin  a  honest  liveliwood,  if  so  be  as  I  was 
to  be  allowed  my  liberty  and  to  go  back  to  the  world.  "Ah!  sir,"  says  I, 
"I  don't  think  no  longer  about  the  world.  'Tin  a  world  of  sorrow  and  wanity. 
I  havn't  given  a  thought  to  what  I  should  do  in  it."  "Everyone,"  says  the 
Chapling  "has  his  sphere  of  usefulness  in  society;  can  you  think  of  no  employ 
ment  which  you  have  the  desire  and  ability  to  follow?"  "Well,  sir,"  says  I  "if 
there  is  a  wocation  which  I  should  feel  delight  and  pleasure  i.i  follerin'  'tis  that 
of  a  Scripter  Reader.  But  I  ain't  worthy  to  be  a  Scripter  Reader.  A  coal- 
porter  of  tracts  and  religious  books,  sir,  I  thinks  that's  what  I  should  like  to  try 
and  be,  if  the  time  of  my  just  punishment  was  up.  But  there's  near  seven 
year,  sir,  to  think  about  that — and  p'raps  'tis  better  for  me  to  be  here."  That's 
the  way  I  used  to  soap  the  Chapling — Cos  vy  ? 

"  Ven  a  prig,"  etc. 

So  he  thought  I  kissed  the  rod, 

All  the  while  my  'art  was  'ardened ; 
And  I  'adn't  been  very  long  in  quod 

Afore  he  got  me  as  good  as  pardoned  ; 
And  here  am  I  with  my  Ticket  of  Leave, 

Obtained  by  shamming  pious  feeling, 
Which  lets  me  loose  again  to  thieve, 

For  I  means  to  persewere  in  stealing. 

(Spoken.)  With  which  resolution,  my  beloved  pals,  if  you  please  I'll  couple 
the  'elth  of  the  clergy;  and  may  they  hover  continue  to  be  sitch  kind  friends  as 
they  now  shows  theirselves  to  us  when  we  gets  into  trouble.  For, 

"  Yen  a  prig,"  etc. 


A    POLKA    LYRIC. 

BARCLAY  PHILIPS. 

Qui  mine  dancere  vult  modo, 
Wants  to  dance  in  the  fashion,  oh ! 
Discere  debet — ought  to  know, 
Kickere  floor  cum  heel  and  toe, 

One,  two,  three, 

Hop  with  me, 
Whirligig,  twirligig,  rapide. 


646  ECCENTRIC    AND    NONDESCRIPT, 

Polkam  jungere,  Virgo,  vis, 
Will  you  join  the  polka,  miss  ? 
Liberius — most  willingly, 
Sic  agimus — then  let  us  try : 

Nunc  vide, 

Skip  with  me, 
Whirlabout,  roundabout,  celere. 

Turn  Iseva  cito,  turn  dextra, 

First  to  the  left,  and  then  t'  other  way ; 

Aspice  retro  in  vultu, 

You  look  at  her,  and  she  looks  at  you. 
Das  palmam 
Change  hands,  ma'am ; 

Celere — run  away,  just  in  sham. 


A    SUNNIT    TO    THE    BIG    OX. 

COMPOSED*  WHILE    STANDING   WITHIN   2    FEET   OF   HIM,    AND    A 
TUCniN'    OF   HIM    NOW    AND    THEN. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ALL  hale  !  thou  mighty  annimil — all  hale  ! 
You  are  4  thousand  pounds,  and  am  purty  wel 
Perporshund,  thou  tremenjos  boveen  nuggit ! 
4  wonder  how  big  you  was  wen  you 
Wos  little,  and  if  yure  muther  wud  no  you  now  ! 
That  you  've  grone  so  long,  and  thick,  and  phat ; 
Or  if  yure  father  would  rekognize  his  ofspring 
And  his  kaff,  thou  elcfanteen  quodrupid  ! 
I  wonder  if  it  hurts  you  mutch  to  be  so  big, 
And  if  you  grode  it  in  a  month  or  so. 
I  spose  wen  you  wos  young  tha  did  n't  gin 
You  skim  milk  but  all  the  kreme  you  kud  stuff 
Into  your  little  stummick,  jest  to  see 
How  big  yude  gro ;  and  afterward  tha  no  doubt 
Fed  you  on  otes  and  ha  and  sich  like, 
With  perhaps  an  occasional  punkin  or  squosh  ! 
In  all  probability  yu  don't  no  yure  enny 
Bigger  than  a  small  kaff;  for  if  you  did, 


ECCENTRIC     AND     NONDESCRIPT.  647 

Yude  brake  down  fences  and  switch  your  tail, 
And  rush  around,  and  hook,  and  beller, 
And  run  over  fowkes,  tliou  orful  beast. 
O,  what  a  lot  of  mince  pize  yude  maik, 
And  sassengers,  and  your  tale, 
Whitch  kan't  wa  fur  from  phorty  pounds, 
Wud  maik  nigh  unto  a  barrel  of  ox-tail  soop, 
And  cudn't  a  heep  of  stakes  be  cut  oph  yu, 
Whitch,  with  salt  and  pepper  and  tennater 
Ketchup,  wouldn't  be  bad  to  taik. 
Thou  grate  and  glorious  inseckt ! 
But  I  must  klose,  0  most  prodijus  reptile  ! 
And  for  mi  admirashun  of  yu,  when  yu  di, 
I'le  rite  a  node  unto  yore  peddy  and  remaues, 
Pernouncin'  yu  the  largest  of  yure  race  ; 
And  as  I  don't  expect  to  have  a  half  a  dollar 
Agin  to  spare  for  to  pa  to  look  at  yu,  and  us 
I  ain't  a  ded  head,  I  will  sa,  farewell. 


ENIGMATIC. 


ENIGMATIC, 


RIDDLES    BY    MATTHEW    PRIOR. 

TWO    RIDDLES. 

SPHINX  was  a  monster  that  would  eat 
Whatever  stranger  she  could  get ; 
Unless  his  ready  wit  disclos'd 
The  subtle  riddle  she  propos'd. 

(Edipus  was  resolv'd  to  go, 
And  try  what  strength  of  parts  would  do.    . 
Says  Sphinx,  on  this  depends  your  fate  ; 
Tell  rne  what  animal  is  that 
Which  has  four  feet  at  morning  bright, 
Has  two  at  noon  and  three  at  night  ? 
'Tis  man,  said  he,  who,  weak  by  nature, 
At  first  creeps,  like  his  fellow  creature, 
Upon  all-four ;  as  years  accrue, 
With  sturdy  steps  he  walks  on  two ; 
In  age,  at  length,  grows  weak  and  sick, 
For  his  third  leg  adopts  a  stidc. 

Now,  in  your  turn,  'tis  just  methinks, 
You  should  resolve  me,  Madam  Sphinx. 
What  greater  stranger  yet  is  he 
Who  has  four  legs,  then  two,  then  three ; 
Then  loses  one,  then  gets  two  more, 
And  runs  away  at  last  on  four  ? 

ENIGMA. 

BY  birth  I  'm  a  slave,  yet  can  give  you  a  crown,. 
I  dispose  of  all  honors,  myself  having  none : 
I  'm  obliged  by  just  maxims  to  govern  my  life, 
Yet  I  hang  my  own  master,  and  lie  with  his  wife. 


652  ENIGMATIC. 

When  men  are  a-gaming  I  cunningly  sneak, 

And  their  cudgels  and  shovels  away  from  them  take. 

Fair  maidens  and  ladies  I  by  the  hand  get, 

And  pick  off  their  diamonds,  tho'  ne'er  so  well  set. 

For  when  I  have  comrades  we  rob  in  whole  bands, 

Then  presently  take  off  your  lands  from  your  hands. 

But,  this  fury  once  over,  I  Ve  such  winning  arts, 

That  you  love  me  much  more  than  you  do  your  own  hearts. 


ANOTHER. 

FORM'D  half  beneath,  and  half  above  the  earth, 
We  sisters  owe  to  art  our  second  birth  : 
The  smith's  and  carpenter's  adopted  daughters, 
Made  on  the  land,  to  travel  on  the  waters. 
Swifter  they  move,  as  they  are  straiter  bound, 
Yet  neither  tread  the  air,  or  wave,  or  ground : 
They  serve  the  poor  for  use,  the  rich  for  whim, 
Sink  when  it  rains,  and  when  it  freezes  swim. 


RIDDLES  BY  DEAN  SWIFT  AND  HIS  FRIENDS  * 
A    MAYPOLE. 

DEPRIVED  of  root,  and  branch,  and  rind, 
Yet  flowers  I  bear  of  every  kind  : 
And  such  is  my  prolific  power, 
They  bloom  in  less  than  half  an  hour ; 
Yet  standers-by  may  plainly  see 
They  get  no  nourishment  from  me. 

*  The  following  notice  is  subjoiued  to  some  of  those  riddles,  in  the  Dubliu 
edition;  "About  nine  or  ten  years  ago  (i.  e.  about  1T24),  some  ingenious  gentle 
men,  friends  to  the  author,  used  to  entertain  themselves  with  writing  riddles,  and 
send  them  to  him  and  their  other  acquaintance  ;  copies  of  which  ran  about,  and 
some  of  them  were  printed,  both  here  and  in  England.  The  author,  at  his  leisure 
hours,  fell  into  the  same  amusement ;  although  it  be  said  that  he  thought  them 
of  no  great  merit,  entertainment,  or  use.  However,  by  the  advice  of  some  per 
sons,  for  whom  the  author  has  a  great  esteem,  and  who  were  pleased  to  send  us 
the  copies,  we  have  ventured  to  print  the  few  following,  as  we  have  done  two  or 
three  before,  and  which  are  allowed  to  be  genuine ;  because  we  are  informed  that 
several  good  judges  have  a  taste  for  such  kind  of  compositions." 


ENIGMATIC.  653 

My  head  with  giddiness  goes  round, 

And  yet  I  firmly  stand  my  ground  ; 

All  over  naked  I  am  seen, 

And  painted  like  an  Indian  queen. 

No  couple-beggar  in  the  land 

E'er  join'd  such  numbers  hand  in  hand. 

I  join'd  them  fairly  with  a  ring  ; 

Nor  can  our  parson  blame  the  thing. 

And  though  no  marriage  words  are  spoke, 

They  part  not  till  the  ring  is  broke : 

Yet  hypocrite  fanatics  cry, 

I  'm  but  an  idol  raised  on  high  • 

And  once  a  weaver  hi  our  town, 

A  damn'd  Oomwellian,  knock'd  me  down. 

I  lay  a  prisoner  twenty  years, 

And  then  the  jovial  cavaliers 

To  their  old  post  restored  all  three — 

I  mean  the  church,  the  king,  and  me. 


ON   THE   MOON. 

I  with  borrowed  silver  shine, 
What  you  see  is  none  of  mine. 
First  I  show  you  but  a  quarter, 
Like  the  bow  that  guards  the  Tartar : 
Then  the  half,  and  then  the  whole, 
Ever  dancing  round  the  pole. 

What  will  raise  your  admiration, 

I  am  not  one  of  God's  creation, 

But  sprung  (and  I  this  truth  maintain), 

Like  Pallas,  from  my  father's  brain. 

And  after  all,  I  chiefly  owe 

My  beauty  to  the  shades  below. 

Most  wondrous  forms  you  see  me  wear, 

A  man,  a  woman,  lion,  bear, 

A  fish,  a  fowl,  a  cloud,  a  field, 

All  figures  heaven  or  earth  can  yield ; 

Like  Daphne  sometimes  in  a  tree ; 

Yet  am  not  one  of  all  you  see. 


654  ENIGMATIC. 

ON    INK. 

I  am  jet  black,  as  you  may  see, 

The  son  of  pitch  and  gloomy  night ; 

Yet  all  that  know  me  will  agree, 
I  'm  dead  except  I  live  in  light. 

Sometimes  in  panegyric  high, 
Like  lofty  Pindar,  I  can  soar, 

And  raise  a  virgin  to  the  sky, 
Or  sink  her  to  a  filthy . 

My  blood  this  day  is  very  sweet, 
To-morrow  of  a  bitter  juice  ; 

Like  milk,  'tis  cried  about  the  street, 
And  so  applied  to  different  use. 

Most  wondrous  is  my  magic  power : 
For  with  one  color  I  can  paint ; 

I'll  make  the  devil  a  saint  this  hour, 
Next  make  a  devil  of  a  saint. 

Through  distant  regions  I  can  fly, 
Provide  me  but  with  paper  wings ; 

And  fairly  show  a  reason  why 

There  should  be  quarrels  among  kings  ; 

And,  after  all,  you  '11  think  it  odd, 
When  learned  doctors  will  dispute, 

That  I  should  point  the  word  of  God, 
And  show  where  they  can  best  confute. 

Let  lawyers  bawl  and  strain  their  throats : 
'Tis  I  that  must  the  lands  convey, 

And  strip  their  clients  to  their  coats ; 
Nay,  give  their  very  souls  away. 


ON    A    CIRCLE. 

I  'm  up  and  down,  and  round  about, 
Yet  all  the  world  can't  find  me  out ; 
Though  hundreds  have  employ'd  their  leisure, 
They  never  yet  could  find  my  measure. 


ENIGMATIC. 


I  'm  found  almost  in  every  garden, 
Nay,  in  the  compass  of  a  farthing. 
There  's  neither  chariot,  coach,  nor  mill, 
Can  move  an  inch  except  I  will. 


ON    A    PEN. 


In  youth  exalted  high  in  air, 

Or  bathing  in  the  waters  fair, 

Nature  to  form  me  took  delight, 

And  clad  my  body  all  in  white. 

My  person  tall,  and  slender  waist, 

On  either  side  with  fringes  graced ; 

Till  me  that  tyrant  man  espied, 

And  dragg'd  me  from  my  mother's  side ; 

No  wonder  now  I  look  so  thin  ; 

The  tyrant  stript  me  to  the  skin : 

My  skin  he  flay'd,  my  hair  he  cropt : 

At  head  and  foot  my  body  lopt : 

And  then,  with  heart  more  hard  than  stone, 

He  pick'd  my  marrow  from  the  bone. 

To  vex  me  more,  he  took  a  freak 

To  slit  my  tongue  and  make  me  speak : 

But,  that  which  wonderful  appears, 

I  speak  to  eyes,  and  not  to  ears. 

He  oft  employs  me  in  disguise, 

And  makes  me  tell  a  thousand  lies : 

To  me  he  chiefly  gives  in  trust 

To  please  his  malice  or  his  lust. 

From  me  no  secret  he  can  hide  : 

I  see  his  vanity  and  pride : 

And  my  delight  is  to  expose 

His  follies  to  his  greatest  foes. 

All  languages  I  can  command, 

Yet  not  a  word  I  understand. 

Without  my  aid,  the  best  divine 

In  learning  would  not  know  a  line : 

The  lawyer  must  forget  his  pleading ; 

The  scholar  could  not  show  his  reading. 

Nay  ;  man  my  master  is  my  slave ; 
I  give  command  to  kill  or  save, 


656  ENIGMATIC. 

Can  grant  ten  thousand  pounds  a-year, 
And  make  a  beggar's  brat  a  peer. 
But,  while  I  thus  my  life  relate, 
I  only  hasten  on  my  fate. 
My  tongue  is  black,  my  mouth  is  furr'd, 
I  hardly  now  can  force  a  word. 
I  die  unpitied  and  forgot, 
And  on  some  dunghill  left  to  rot. 


A    FAN. 

From  India's  burning  clime  I  'm  brought, 
With  cooling  gales  like  zephyrs  fraught, 
Not  Iris,  when  she  paints  the  sky, 
Can  show  more  different  hues  than  I : 
Nor  can  she  change  her  form  so  fast, 
I  'm  now  a  sail,  and  now  a  mast. 
I  here  am  red,  and  there  am  green, 
A  beggar  there,  and  here  a  queen. 
I  sometimes  live  in  a  house  of  hair, 
And  oft  in  hand  of  lady  fair. 
I  please  the  young,  I  grace  the  old, 
And  am  at  once  both  hot  and  cold 
Say  what  I  am  then,  if  you  can, 
And  find  the  rhyme,  and  you  're  the  man. 


ON    A    CANNON. 

Begotten,  and  born,  and  dying  with  noise, 
The  terror  of  women,  and  pleasure  of  boys, 
Like  the  fiction  of  poets  concerning  the  wind, 
I  'm  chiefly  unruly  when  strongest  confined. 
For  silver  and  gold  I  don't  trouble  my  head, 
But  all  I  delight  in  is  pieces  of  lead  ; 
Except  when  I  trade  with  a  ship  or  a  town, 
Why  then  I  make  pieces  of  iron  go  down. 
One  property  more  I  would  have  you  remark, 
No  lady  was  ever  more  fond  of  a  spark; 
The  moment  I  get  one  my  soul 's  all  sr-fire, 
And  I  roar  out  my  joy,  and  in  transport  expire. 


ENIGMATIC.  657 

ON    THE    FIVE    SENSES. 

All  of  us  in  one  you  '11  find, 
Brethren  of  a  wondrous  kind ; 
Yet  among  us  all  no  brother 
Knows  one  title  of  the  other ; 
We  in  frequent  counsels  are, 
And  our  marks  of  things  declare, 
Where,  to  us  unknown,  a  clerk 
Sits,  and  takes  them  in  the  dark. 
He  's  the  register  of  all 
In  our  ken,  both  great  and  small  ; 
By  us  forms  his  laws  and  rules, 
He 's  our  master,  we  his  tools ; 
Yet  we  can  with  greatest  ease 
Turn  and  wind  him  where  you  please. 

One  of  us  alone  can  sleep, 
Yet  no  watch  the  rest  will  keep, 
But  the  moment  that  he  closes, 
Every  brother  else  reposes. 

If  wine's  bought  or  victuals  drest, 
One  enjoys  them  for  the  rest. 

Pierce  us  all  with  wounding  steel, 
One  for  all  of  us  will  feel. 

Though  ten  thousand  cannons  roar. 
Add  to  them  ten  thousand  more, 
Yet  but  one  of  us  is  found 
Who  regards  the  dreadful  sound. 


ON    SNOW. 

From  Heaven  I  fall,  though  from  earth  I  begin. 
No  lady  alive  can  show  such  a  skin. 
I  'm  bright  as  an  angel,  and  light  as  a  feather, 
But  heavy  and  dark,  when  you  squeeze  me  together. 
Though  candor  and  truth  in  my  aspect  I  bear, 
Yet  many  poor  creatures  I  help  to  insnare. 
Though  so  much  of  Heaven  appears  in  my  make, 
The  foulest  impressions  I  easily  take. 
My  parent  and  I  produce  one  another, 
The  mother  the  daughter,  the  daughter  the  mother. 
28* 


058  ENIGMATIC. 

ON    A    CANDLE. 

Of  all  inhabitants  on  earth, 

To  man  alone  I  owe  my  birth, 

And  yet  the  cow,  the  sheep,  the  bee, 

Are  all  my  parents  more  than  he : 

I,  a  virtue,  strange  and  rare, 

Make  the  fairest  look  more  fair ; 

And  myself,  which  yet  is  rarer, 

Growing  old,  grow  still  the  fairer. 

Like  sots,  alone  I  'm  dull  enough, 

When  dosed  with  smoke,  and  smear'd  with  snufl  ; 

But,  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  wine, 

I  with  double  luster  shine. 

Emblem  of  the  Fair  am  I, 

Polish'd  neck,  and  radiant  eye ; 

In  my  eye  my  greatest  grace, 

Emblem  of  the  Cyclops'  race  ; 

Metals  I  like  them  subdue, 

Slave  like  them  to  Vulcan  too ; 

Emblem  of  a  monarch  old, 

Wise,  and  glorious  to  behold ; 

Wasted  he  appears,  and  pale, 

Watching  for  the  public  weal : 

Emblem  of  the  bashful  darne, 

That  in  secret  feeds  her  flame, 

Often  aiding  to  impart 

All  the  secrets  of  her  heart ; 

Various  is  my  bulk  and  hue, 

Big  like  Bess,  and  small  like  Sue : 

Now  brown  and  burnish'd  like  a  nut, 

At  other  times  a  very  slut  ; 

Often  fair,  and  soft  and  tender, 

Taper,  tall,  and  smooth,  and  slender  : 

Like  Flora,  deck'd  with  various  flowers, 

Like  Phcebus,  guardian  of  the  hours : 

But  whatever  be  my  dress, 

Greater  be  my  size  or  less, 

Swelling  be  my  shape  or  small, 

Like  thyself  I  shine  in  all. 

Clouded  if  my  face  is  seen, 

My  complexion  wan  and  green, 


ENIGMATIC.  059 


Languid  like  a  love-sick  inaid, 

Steel  affords  me  present  aid. 

Soon  or  late,  my  date  is  done, 

As  my  thread  of  life  is  spun ; 

Yet  to  cut  the  fatal  thread 

Oft  revives  my  drooping  head; 

Yet  I  perish  in  my  prime, 

Seldom  by  the  death  of  time ; 

Die  like  lovers  as  they  gaze, 

Die  for  those  I  live  to  please ; 

Pine  unpitied  to  my  urn, 

Nor  warm  the  fair  for  whom  I  burn ; 

Unpitied,  unlamented  too, 

Die  like  all  that  look  on  you. 


ON    A    CORKSCREW. 

Though  I,  alas !  a  prisoner  be, 
My  trade  is  prisoners  to  set  free. 
No  slave  his  lord's  commands  obeys 
With  such  insinuating  ways. 
My  genius  piercing,  sharp,  and  bright, 
Wherein  the  men  of  wit  delight. 
The  clergy  keep  me  for  their  ease, 
And  turn  and  wind  me  as  they  please. 
A  new  and  wondrous  art  I  show 
Of  raising  spirits  from  below ; 
In  scarlet  some,  and  some  in  white ; 
They  rise,  walk  round,  yet  never  fright 
In  at  each  mouth  the  spirits  pass, 
Distinctly  seen  as  through  a  glass. 
O'er  head  and  body  make  a  rout, 
And  drive  at  last  all  secrets  out ; 
And  still,  the  more  I  show  my  art, 
The  more  they  open  every  heart. 

A  greater  chemist  none  than  I 
Who,  from  materials  hard  and  dry, 
Have  taught  men  to  extract  with  skill 
More  precious  juice  than  from  a  still. 

Although  I  'm  often  out  of  case, 
I  'm  not  ashamed  to  show  my  face. 


660  ENIGMATIC. 

Though  at  the  tables  of  the  great 

I  near  the  sideboard  take  my  seat  ; 

Yet  the  plain  'squire,  when  dinner 's  done, 

Is  never  pleased  till  I  make  one ; 

He  kindly  bids  me  near  him  stand, 

And  often  takes  me  by  the  hand. 

I  twice  a-day  a-hunting  go, 
And  never  fail  to  seize  my  foe  ; 
And  when  I  have  him  by  the  poll, 
I  drag  him  upward  from  his  hole  ; 
Though  some  are  of  so  stubborn  kind, 
I  'm  forced  to  leave  a  limb  behind. 

I  hourly  wait  some  fatal  end  ; 
.For  T  can  break,  but  scorn  to  bend. 


AN    ECHO. 

Never  sleeping,  still  awake, 
Pleasing  most  when  most  I  speak ; 
The  delight  of  old  and  young, 
Though  I  speak  without  a  tongue. 
Nought  but  one  thing  can  confound  me, 
Many  voices  joining  round  me ; 
Then  I  fret,  and  rave,  and  gabble, 
Like  the  laborers  of  Babel. 
Now  I  am  a  dog,  or  cow, 
I  can  bark,  or  I  can  low ; 
I  can  bleat,  or  I  can  sing, 
Like  the  warblers  of  the  spring. 
Let  the  love-sick  bard  complain, 
And  I  mourn  the  cruel  pain ; 
Let  the  happy  swain  rejoice, 
And  I  join  my  helping  voice  : 
Both  are  welcome,  grief  or  joy, 
I  with  either  sport  and  toy. 
Though  a  lady,  I  am  stout, 
Drums  and  trumpets  bring  me  out : 
Then  I  clash,  and  roar,  and  rattle, 
Join  in  all  the  din  of  battle. 
Jove,  with  all  his  loudest  thunder, 
When  I  'm  vexed  can't  keep  me  under ; 


ENIGMATIC.  661 


Yet  so  tender  is  my  ear, 
That  the  lowest  voice  I  fear ; 
Much  I  dread  the  courtier's  fate, 
When  his  merit 's  out  of  date, 
For  I  hate  a  silent  breath, 
And  a  whisper  is  my  death. 


ON    THE    VOWELS. 

We  are  little  airy  creatures, 
All  of  different  voice  and  features ; 
One  of  us  in  glass  is  set, 
One  of  us  you  '11  find  in  jet. 
T'  other  you  may  see  hi  tin, 
And  the  fourth  a  box  within. 
If  the  fifth  you  should  pursue, 
It  can  never  fly  from  you. 


ON    A    PAIR    OF    DICE. 

We  are  little  brethren  twain, 
Arbiters  of  loss  and  gain, 
Many  to  our  counters  run, 
Some  are  made,  and  some  undone : 
But  men  find  it  to  their  cost, 
Few  are  made,  but  numbers  lost. 
Though  we  play  them  tricks  forever, 
Yet  they  always  hope  our  favor. 


ON    A    SHADOW    IN    A    GLASS, 

By  something  form'd,  I  nothing  am, 
Yet  every  thing  that  you  can  name ; 
In  no  place  have  I  ever  been, 
Yet  everywhere  I  may  be  seen  ; 
In  all  things  false,  yet  always  true, 
I  'm  still  the  same — but  ever  new. 
Lifeless,  life's  perfect  form  I  wear, 
Can  show  a  nose,  eye,  tongue,  or  ear, 
v  >t  neither  smell,  see,  taste,  nor  hear. 


662  ENIGMATIC. 

All  shapes  and  features  I  can  boast, 
No  flesh,  no  bones,  no  blood — no  ghost : 
All  colors,  without  paint,  put  on, 
And  change,  like  the  chameleon. 
Swiftly  I  come,  and  enter  there, 
Where  not  a  chink  lets  in  the  air ; 
Like  thought,  I  'm  in  a  moment  gone, 
Nor  can  I  ever  be  alone  : 
All  things  on  earth  I  imitate 
Faster  than  nature  can  create ; 
Sometimes  imperial  robes  I  wear, 
Anon  in  beggar's  rags  appear ; 
A  giant  now,  and  straight  an  elf, 
I  'm  every  one,  but  ne'er  myself; 
Ne'er  sad  I  mourn,  ne'er  glad  rejoice, 
I  move  my  lips,  but  want  a  voice ; 
I  ne'er  was  born,  nor  ne'er  can  die, 
Then,  pr'ythee,  tell  me  what  am  I  ? 


ON    TIME. 

Ever  eating,  ever  cloying, 
All-devouring,  all-destroying 
Never  finding  full  repast, 
Till  I  eat  the  world  at  last 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 


CATALOGUE    OF   SOURCES. 


ADPISON,  JOSEPH— The  Essayist  of  tho  "Spectator;"  born  1632; 
died  1708.  Addison,  though  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  English 
humorists,  wrote  scarcely  a  line  of  humorous  verse.  See  p.  538. 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM — An  American  writer;  contributor  to 
"Putnam's  Magazine ;"  author  of  a  volume  of  poems  recently  pub 
lished  in  Hartford.  See  p.  70. 

ANONYMOUS— To  Punch's  Almanac,  for -1856,  we  are  indebted 
for  an  account  of  this  prolific  writer : 

Of  ANON,"  says  Punch,  "but  little  is  known,  though  his  works  are 
excessively  numerous.  He  has  dabbled  in  every  thing.  Prose  and 
Poetry  are  alike  familiar  to  his  pen.  One  moment  he  will  be  up 
the  highest  flights  of  philosophy,  and  the  next  he  will  be  down  in 
some  kitchen  garden  of  literature,  culling  an  Enormous  Gooseberry, 
to  present  it  to  the  columns  of  some  provincial  newspaper.  His 
contributions  are  scattered  wherever  the  English  language  is  read. 
Open  any  volume  of  Miscellanies  at  any  place  you  will,  and  you  are 
sure  to  fall  upon  some  choice  little  bit  signed  by  '  Anon.'  What  a 
mind  his  must  have  been  I  It  took  in  every  thing  like  a  pawn 
broker's  shop.  Nothing  was  too  trifling  for  its  grasp.  Now  he 
was  hanging  on  to  the  trunk  of  an  elephant  and  explaining  to  you 
how  it  was  more  elastic  than  a  pair  of  India-rubber  braces;  and 
next  he  would  be  constructing  a  suspension  bridge  with  a  series  of 
monkey's  tails,  tying  them  together  as  they  do  pocket-handkerchieis 
in  the  gallery  of  a  theater  when  they  want  to  fish  up  a  bonnet  that 
has  fallen  into  the  pit. 

"  Anon  is  one  of  our  greatest  authors.  If  all  the  things  which  are 
signed  with  Anon's  name  were  collected  on  rows  of  shelves,  he 
would  require  a  British  Museum  all  to  himself.  And  yet  of  this 
great  man  so  little  is  known  that  wo  are  not  even  acquainted  with 
his  Christian  name.  There  is  no  certificate  of  baptism,  no  moldy 
tombstone,  no  musty  washing-bill  in  the  world  on  which  we  can 
hook  the  smallest  line  of  speculation  whether  it  was  John,  or  James, 


666         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

or  Joshua,  or  Tom,  or  Dick,  or  Billy  Anon.  Shame  that  a  man 
should  write  so  much,  and  yet  be  known  so  little.  Oblivion  uses 
its  snuffers,  sometimes,  very  unjustly.  On  second  thoughts,  per 
haps,  it  is  as  well  that  the  works  of  Anon  were  not  collected  to 
gether.  His  reputation  for  consistency  would  not  probably  bo 
increased  by  the  collection.  It  would  be  found  that  frequently  he 
had  contradicted  himself — that  in  many  instances  when  he  had 
been  warmly  upholding  the  Christian  white  of  a  question  he  had 
afterward  turned  round,  and  maintained  with  equal  warmth  the 
Pagan  black  of  it.  He  might  often  be  discovered  on  both  sides  of 
a  truth,  jumping  boldly  from  the  right  side  over  to  the  wrong,  and 
flinging  big  stones  at  any  one  who  dared  to  assail  him  in  either 
position.  Such  double-sidedness  would  not  be  pretty,  and  yet  we 
should  be  lenient  to  such  inconsistencies.  "With  one  who  had  writ 
ten  so  many  thousand  volumes,  who  had  twirled  his  thoughts  as 
with  a  mop  on  every  possible  subject,  how  was  it  possible  to  ex 
pect  any  thing  like  consistency  ?  How  was  it  likely  that  he  could 
recollect  every  little  atom  out  of  the  innumerable  atoms  his  pen 
had  heaped  up? 

"  Anon  ought  to  have  been  rich,  but  he  lived  in  an  age  when 
piracy  was  the  fashion,  and  when  booksellers  walked  about,  as  it 
were,  like  Indian  chiefs,  with  the  skulls  of  the  authors  they  had 
slain,  hung  round  their  necks.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  we 
know  nothing  of  the  wealth  of  Anon.  Doubtless  he  died  in  a  gar 
ret,  like  many  other  kindred  spirits,  Death  being  the  only  score  out 
of  the  many  knocking  at  his  door  that  he  could  pay.  But  to  his 
immortal  credit  let  it  be  said  he  has  filled  more  libraries  than  the 
most  generous  patrons  of  literature.  The  volumes  that  formed  the 
fuel-  of  the  barbarians'  bonfire  at  Alexandria  would  be  but  a  small 
book-stah1  by  the  side  of  the  octavos,  quartos,  and  duodecimos  he 
has  pyramidized  on  our  book-shelves.  Look  through  any  catalogue 
you  will,  and  you  will  find  that  a  large  proportion  of  the  works  in 
it  have  been  contributed  by  Anon.  The  only  author  who  can  in 
the  least  compete  with  him  in  fecundity  is  Ibid."  See  pp.  569,  570, 
571,  572,  584,  587,  646. 

ANTI-JACOBIN,  THE — Perhaps  the  most  famous  collection  of  Po 
litical  Satires  extant.  Originated  by  Canning  in  1797,  it  appeared 
in  the  form  of  a  weekly  newspaper,  interspersed  with  poetry,  the 
avowed  object  of  which  was  to  expose  the  vicious  doctrines  of  the 
French  Revolution,  and  to  hold  up  to  ridicule  and  contempt  the 
advocates  of  that  event,  and  the  sticklers  for  peace  and  parliament 
ary  reform.  The  editor  was  "William  Gifford,  the  vigorous  and  un 
scrupulous  critic  and  poetaster  the  writers,  Mr.  John  Hookham 
Frere,  Mr.  Jenkinson  (afterward  Earl  of  Liverpool);  Mr.  George 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         667 

Ellis,  Lord  Clare,  Lord  Mornington  (afterward  Marquis  Wcllesley), 
Lord  Morpeth  (afterward  Earl  of  Carlisle),  Baron  Macdonald,  and 
others.  These  gentlemen  spared  no  means,  fair  or  foul,  in  their 
attempts  to  blacken  their  adversaries.  Their  most  distinguished 
countrymen,  if  opposed  to  the  Tory  government  of  the  time  being, 
were  treated  with  no  more  respect  than  foreign  adversaries,  and 
were  held  up  to  public  execration  as  traitors,  blasphemers,  and  de 
bauchees.  The  period  was  one  of  great  political  excitement,  a 
fierce  war  with  republican  France  being  in  progress,  the  necessity 
for  which  divided  the  public  into  two  great  parties ;  national  credit 
being  affected,  the  Bank  of  England  suspending  cash  payments, 
mutinies  breaking  out  in  the  fleets  at  Spithead  and  the  Nore,  and 
Ireland  at  the  verge  of  rebellion.  Spain,  also,  had  declared  war 
against  Britain,  which  was  thus  left  to  contend  singly  against  the 
power  of  France.  Party  feeling  running  very  high,  the  anti-Jaco 
bins  were  by  no  means  discriminating  in  their  attacks,  associating 
men  together  who  really  had  nothing  in  common.  Hence  the 
reader  is  surprised  to  find  Charles  Lamb  and  other  non-intruders  into 
politics,  figuring  as  congenial  conspirators  with  Tom  Fame.  Fox, . 
Sheridan,  Erskine,  and  other  eloquent  liberals  of  the  day,  with 
Tierney,  Home  Tooke,  and  Coleridge  were  at  the  same  time  writ 
ing  and  talking  in  the  opposite  extreme,  and  little  quarter  was 
given — certainly  none  on  the  part  of  the  Tory  wits.  The  poetry 
of  the  "  Anti-Jacobin,"  however,  was  not  exclusively  political,  com 
prising  also  parodies  and  burlesques  on  the  current  literature  of  the 
day,  some  being  of  the  highest  degree  of  merit,  and  distinguished 
by  sharp  wit  and  broad  humor  of  the  happiest  kind.  In  these, 
Canning  and  his  coadjutors  did  a  real  service  to  letters,  and  assisted 
in  a  purification  which  Gifford,  by  his  demolition  of  the  Delia  Crus- 
can  school  of  poetry  had  so  well  begun.  Perhaps  no  lines  in  the 
English  language  have  been  more  effective  or  oftener  quoted  than 
Canning's  "Friend  of  Humanity  and  the  Knife  G-rinder."  Many  of 
the  celebrated  caricatures  of  Gilray  were  originally  designed  to  illus 
trate  the  Poetry  of  the  Anti-Jacobin.  It  had,  however,  but  a  brief, 
though  brilliant  existence.  Wilberforce  and  others  of  the  more 
moderate  supporters  of  the  ministry  became  alarmed  at  the 
boldness  of  the  language  employed.  Pitt  (himself  a  contributor 
to  the  journal),  was  induced  to  interfere,  and  after  a  career  of  eight 
months,  the  "Anti- Jacobin"  (in  its  original  form),  ceased  to  be.  See 
pp.  384,  386,  387. 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM — Professor  of  Polite  Literature  in  the  Edin- 
burg  University:  editor  of  "Blackwood's  Magazine:"  son-in-law  of 
the  late  Professor  Wilson.  Professor  Aytoun  was  bred  to  the  bar, 
but,  we  believe,  never  came  into  practice.  He  is  the  author  of 


668  CATALOGUE     OF    SOURCES. 

several  humorous  pieces,  and  of  many  in  which  the  intention  to  be 
humorous  was  not  realized.  He  is  what  the  English  call  a  very 
clever  man.  Like  many  others  who  excel  in  ridicule  and  sarcasm,  he 
is  devoid  of  that  kind  of  moral  principle  which  makes  a  writer  pre 
fer  the  Just  to  the  Dashing.  Aytoun  is  a  fierce  Tory  in  politics — a 
snob  on  principle.  The  specimens  of  his  humorous  poetry  con 
tained  in  this  collection  were  taken  from  the  "Ballads  of  Bon  Gaul- 
tier,"  and  the  "Idees  Napoleoniennes,"  editions  of  both  of  which 
have  been  published  in  this  country.  See  pp.  181,  345,  347,  503, 
504,  506,  507,  510,  511,  512,  513,  514,  516,  576. 

BARHAM,  REV.  RICHARD  HARRIS— Author  of  the  celebrated 
"Ingoldsby  Legends,"  published  originally  in  "Bentley's  Miscel 
lany,"  afterward  collected  and  published  in  three  volumes,  with  a 
memoir  by  a  son  of  the  author. 

Mr.  Barham  was  born  at  Canterbury,  England,  December  Gth, 
1788.  His  family  is  of  great  antiquity,  having  given  its  name  to 
the  well-known  "Barham  Downs,"  between  Dover  and  Canterbury. 
He  was  educated  at  St.  Paul's  School  in  Canterbury,  where  he 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Richard  Bentley,  who  afterward  became 
his  publisher.  From  this  school,  he  went  to  Oxford,  entering 
Brazennose  College,  as  a  gentleman  commoner,  where  he  met  Theo 
dore  Hook,  and  formed  a  friendship  with  that  prince  of  wits  which 
terminated  only  with  Hook's  life.  At  the  University,  Barham  led 
a  wild,  dissipated  life — as  the  bad  custom  then  was — and  was 
noted  as  a  wit  and  good  fellow.  Being  called  to  account,  on  one 
occasion,  by  his  tutor  for  his  continued  absence  from  morning  prayer, 
Barham  replied, 

"  The  fact  is,  sir,  you  are  too  late  for  me." 

"  Too  late  ?"  exclaimed  the  astonished  tutor. 

"Yes,  sir,"  rejoined  the  student,  "I  can  not  sit  up  till  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  am  a  man  of  regular  habits,  and  unless  I 
get  to  bed  by  four  or  five,  I  am  fit  for  nothing  the  next  day." 

The  tutor  took  this  jovial  reply  seriously,  and  Barham  perceiving 
that  he  was  really  wounded,  offered  a  sincere  apology,  and  after 
ward  attended  prayers  more  regularly. 

Entering  the  church,  he  devoted  himself  to  his  clerical  duties 
with  exemplary  assiduity,  and  obtained  valuable  preferment,  rising 
at  length  to  be  one  of  the  Canons  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  Tliis 
office  brought  him  into  relations  with  Sydney  Smith,  with  whom, 
though  Barham  was  a  Tory,  he  had  much  convivial  intercourse. 

Very  early  in  life  Mr.  Barham  became  an  occasional  contributor 
to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  then  in  the  prime  of  its  vigorous  youth. 
The  series  of  contributions  called  "  Family  Poetry,"  which  appear 
hi  the  volumes  for  1823,  and  subsequent  years,  were  by  him.  Most 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         669 

• 

of  those  humorous  effusions  have  been  transferred  to  this  volume. 
In  1837  Mr.  Bentley  established  his  "Miscellany,"  and  secured  the 
services  of  his  friend  Barham,  who,  up  to  this  time  was  unknown  to 
the  general  public,  though  he  had  been  for  nearly  twenty  years  a  suc 
cessful  writer.  The  "  Ingoldsby  Legends"  now  appeared  in  rapid 
succession,  and  proved  so  popular  that  their  author  soon  became 
one  of  the  recognized  wits  of  the  day.  A  large  number  of  these  unique 
and  excellent  productions  enrich  the  present  collection.  "As  re 
spects  these  poems,"  says  Mr.  Barham's  biographer,  '-remarkable  as 
they  have  been  pronounced  for  the  wit  and  humor  which  they  dis 
play,  their  distinguishing  attractions  lies  in  the  almost  unparalleled 
flow  and  felicity  of  the  versification.  Popular  phrases,  sentences 
the  most  prosaic,  even  the  cramped  technicalities  of  legal  diction, 
and  snatches  from  well-nigh  every  language,  are  wrought  in  with 
an  apparent  absence  of  all  art  and  effort  that  surprises,  pleases,  and 
convulses  the  reader  at  every  turn.  The  author  triumphs  with  a 
master  hand  over  every  variety  of  stanza,  however  complicated  or 
exacting ;  not  a  word  seems  out  of  place,  not  an  expression  forced ; 
syllables  the  most  intractable,  and  the  only  partners  fitted  for  them 
throughout  the  range  of  language  are  coupled  together  as  naturally 
as  those  kindred  spirits  which  poets  tell  us  were  created  pairs,  and 
dispersed  in  space  to  seek  out  their  particular  mates.  A  harmony 
pervades  the  whole,  a  perfect  modulation  of  numbers,  never,  per 
haps,  surpassed,  and  rarely  equaled  in  compositions  of  their  class. 
This  was  the  forte  of  Thomas  Ingoldsby ;  a  harsh  line  or  untrue 
rhyme  grated  on  his  ear  like  the  Shandean  hinge."  These  observa 
tions  are  just.  As  a  rhymer,  Mr.  Barham  has  but  one  equal  in 
English  literature — Byron. 

Mr.  Barham  died  at  London  on  the  17th  of  June,  1845,  in  the 
fifty-seventh  year  of  Ms  age.  He  was  an  extremely  amiable,  be 
nevolent  character.  It  does  not  appear  that  his  love  of  the  humor 
ous  was  ever  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  performance  of  his  duties 
as  a  clergyman.  Without  being  a  great  preacher,  he  was  a  faithful 
and  kindly  pastor,  never  so  much  in  his  element  as  when  minister 
ing  to  the  distresses,  or  healing  the  differences  of  his  parishioners. 
Unlike  his  friend,  Sydney  Smith,  he  was  singularly  fond  of  the 
drama,  and  for  many  years  was  a  member  of  the  Garrick  Club.  He 
was  one  of  the  few  English  writers  of  humorous  verse,  all  of  whose 
writings  may  be  read  aloud  by  a  father  to  his  family,  and  in  whose 
wit  there  was  no  admixture  of  gall.  See  pp.  41,  44,  125,  129,  136, 
146,  156,  164,  282,  287,  417,  418,  419,  568,  569. 


BENTLEY'S    MISCELLANY"— A    London    Monthly    Magazine, 
founded  about  twenty  years  ago  by  Mr.  Beutley,  the  publisher.  Charles 


670         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

Dickens,  and  the  author  of  the  Ingoldsby  Legends  were  among  the 
first  contributors.     See  p.  576. 

BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE— Firet  appeared  in  April,  1817. 
Founded  by  William  Blackwood,  a  shrewd  Edinburgh  bookseller.  Its 
literary  ability  and  fierce  political  partisanship,  soon  placed  it  fore 
most  in  the  ranks  of  Tory  periodicals.  Perhaps  no  magazine  has 
ever  achieved  such  celebrity,  or  numbered  such  a  host  of  illustrious 
contributors.  John  Wilson,  the  world-famous  "  Christopher  North," 
was  the  virtual,  though  not  nominal  editor,  Blackwood  himself  re 
taining  that  title.  It  would  be  a  long  task  to  enumerate  all,  who, 
from  the  days  of  Sir  "Walter  Scott  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  to  thoso 
of  Bulwer  and  Charles  Mackay,  have  appeared  in  its  columns. 
Maginn,  Lockhart,  Gillies,  Moir,  Landor,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge, 
Lamb,  Bowles,  Barry  Cornwall,  Gleig,  Hamilton,  Aird,  Sym,  .De 
Quincey,  Allan  Cunningham,  Mrs.  Hemans,  Jerrold,  Croly,  War 
ren,  Ingoldsby  (Barham),  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  Milnes,  and 
many  others,  of  scarcely  less  note,  found  in  Blackwood  scope  for 
their  productions,  whether  of  prose  or  verse.  In  its  early  days 
much  of  personality  and  sarcasm  marked  its  pages,  savage  onslaughts 
on  Leigh  Hunt,  and  "the  Cockney  School  of  Literature,"  alternating 
with  attacks  on  the  Edinburgh  Review,  the  Quarterly,  and  all  Whigs 
and  Whig  productions  whatever.  The  celebrated  Nodes  Amlrosiance, 
a  series  of  papers  containing  probably  more  learning,  wit,  eloquence, 
eccentricity,  humor,  and  personality  than  have  ever  appeared  else 
where,  formed  part  of  the  individuality  of  Blackwood.  They  were 
written  by  Wilson,  Magiun,  Lockhart,  and  Hogg,  the  two  first 
named  (and  especially  Wilson),  having  the  pre-eminence.  To  the 
New  York  edition  of  this  work,  by  Dr.  Shelton  Mackenzie  (whose 
notes  contain  a  perfect  mine  of  information),  we  refer  the  reader  for 
further  particulars  relative  to  Blackwood.  See  pp.  410,  412,  414, 
587,  588. 

BROUGHAM,  LORD— The  well-known  member  of  the  English 
House  of  Peers.  It  seems,  from  some  jocularities  attributed  to  his 
lordship,  that  he  adds  to  his  many  other  claims  to  distinction  that 
of  being  a  man  of  wit.  See  p.  580. 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN— The  most  celebrated  of  American 
poets.  Editor  of  the  "New  York  Evening  Post."  Born  1794.  See 
p.  58. 

BURNS,  ROBERT— Born  1750,  died  1796.  The  best  loved,  most 
national,  most  independent,  truest,  and  greatest  of  Scottish  poets, 
of  whom  to  say  more  here  were  an  impertinence.  See  pp.  25,  243, 
246,  247,  551,  552,  553. 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         671 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL — Born  in  1612  ;  the  son  of  a  substantial  fanner 
in  Worcestershire,  England.  Very  little  is  known  of  the  earlier 
portion  of  his  life,  as  he  had  reached  the  ago  of  fifty  before  he  was 
so  much  as  heard  of  by  his  cotemporaries.  He  appears  to  have  re 
ceived  a  good  education  at  the  cathedral  school  of  his  native  county, 
and  to  have  filled  various  situations,  as  clerk  in  the  service  of 
Thomas  Jeffries  of  Earl's  Croombe,  secretary  to  the  Countess  of 
Kent,  and  general  man  of  business  to  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  of  Cople 
IIoo,  Bedfordshire,  who,  it  is  said,  served  as  the  model  for  his  hero, 
Hudibraa.  The  first  part  of  this  singular  poem  was  published  at  the 
close  of  1662,  and  met  with  extraordinary  success.  Its  wit,  its 
quaint  sense  and  learning,  its  passages  of  sarcastic  reflection  on  all 
manner  of  topics,  and  above  all,  its  unsparing  ridicule  of  men  and 
things  on  the  Puritan  side,  combined  to  render  it  a  general  favorite. 
The  reception  of  Part  II.,  which  appeared  a  year  subsequent,  was 
equally  flattering.  Yet  its  author  seems  to  have  fallen  into  the 
greatest  poverty  and  obscurity,  from  which  he  never  was  enabled  to 
emerge.  It  appears  to  have  been  his  strange  fate  to  flash  all  at  once 
into  notoriety,  which  lasted  precisely  two  years,  to  fill  the  court  and 
town  during  that  tune  with  continuous  laughter,  intermingled  with 
inquiries  who  and  what  he  was,  and  then  for  seventeen  long  years 
to  plod  on  unknown  and  unregarded,  still  hearing  his  Hudibras 
quoted,  and  still  preparing  more  of  it,  or  matter  similar,  with  no  re 
sult.  He  died,  in  almost  absolute  destitution,  in  1680,  and  was 
buried  at  a  friend's  expense,  in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Paul's,  Coveut 
Garden.  See  pp.  199,  527,  528,  529,  530,  531,  532,  533. 

BYROM— A  noted  English  Jacobite.     Born  1691.     See  p.  545. 

BYRON,  GEORGE  GORDON  NOEL— Born  1788,  dk-d  in  Greece, 
1824.  Respecting  his  celebrated  Satire  on  the  poet  Rogers,  which 
appears  in  this  collection,  we  read  the  following  in  a  London  period 
ical  : — "  The  satire  on  Rogers,  by  Lord  Byron,  is  not  surpassed  for 
cool  malignity,  dexterous  portraiture,  and  happy  imagery,  in  the 
whole  compass  of  the  English  language.  It  is  said,  and  by  those 
well  informed,  that  Rogers  used  to  bore  Byron  while  in  Italy,  by 
his  incessant  minute  dilettantism,  and  by  visits  at  hours  when  Byron 
did  not  care  to  see  him.  One  of  many  wild  freaks  to  repel  his  un 
seasonable  visits  was  to  set  his  big  dog  at  him.  To  a  mind  like 
Byron's,  here  was  sufficient  provocation  for  a  satire.  The  subject, 
too,  was  irresistible.  Other  inducements  were  not  wanting.  No 
man  indulged  himself  more  in  sarcastic  remarks  on  his  cotemporaries 
than  Mr.  Rogers.  He  indulged  his  wit  at  any  sacrifice.  Ho  spared 
no  one,  and  Byron,  consequently  did  not  escape.  Sarcastic  sayings 
travel  on  electric  wings — and  one  of  Rogers's  personal  and  amusing 


672         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

allusions  to  Byron  reached  the  ears  of  the  poetic  pilgrim  at  Ravenna. 
Few  characters  can  bear  the  microscopic  scrutiny  of  wit.  Byron 
suffered.  Fewer  characters  can  bear  its  microscopic  scrutiny  when 
quickened  by  anger,  and  Rogers  suffered  still  more  severely. 

"  This,  the  greatest  of  modern  satirical  portraits  in  verse,  was 
written  before  then*  final  meeting  at  Bologna.  Rogers  was  not 
aware  that  any  saying  of  his  had  ever  reached  the  ear  of  Byron, 
and  Byron  never  published  the  verses  on  Rogers.  They  met  like 
the  handsome  women  described  by  Gibber,  who,  though  they  wished 
one  another  at  the  devil,  are  '  My  dear,'  and  '  My  dear,'  whenever 
they  meet.  One  doubtless  considered  his  saying  as  something  to  be 
forgotten,  and  the  other  his  verses  as  something  not  to  be  remem 
bered.  These  verses  are  not  included  in  Byron's  works,  and  are 
very  little  known."  See  pp.  33,  34,  311,  567,  568. 

CHAUCER  lived  hi  the  thirteenth  century,  dying  in  1400.  He  is 
designated  the  father  of  English  poetry.  The  obsolete  phraseology 
of  his  writings,  though  presenting  a  barrier  to  general  appreciation 
and  popularity,  will  never  deter  those  who  truly  love  the  "  dainties 
that  are  bred  hi  a  book"  from  holding  him  in  .affection  and  rever 
ence.  His  chief  work,  the  "Canterbury  Pilgrimage,"  "well  of  En 
glish  undefiled"  as  it  is,  was  written  in  the  decline  of  life,  when  its 
author  had  passed  his  sixtieth  year.  For  catholicity  of  spirit,  love 
of  nature,  purity  of  thought,  pathos,  humor,  subtle  and  minute  dis 
crimination  of  character  and  power  of  expressing  it,  Chaucer  has 
one  superior — Shakspeare.  See  p.  21. 

CHESTERFIELD,  LORD— Born  in  1794;  died  1773.  Courtier, 
statesman,  and  man  of  the  world ;  famous  for  many  things,  but 
known  to  literature  chiefly  by  his  "Letters  to  his  Son,"  which  have 
formed  three  generations  of  "  gentlemen,"  and  still  exert,  great  inllu- 
ence.  Chesterfield  was  a  noted  wit  in  his  day,  but  most  of  his 
good  things  have  been  lost.  See  p.  546. 

CLEVELAND,  JOHN — A  political  writer  of  Charles  the  First's  time  ; 
author  of  several  satirical  pieces,  now  known  only  to  the  curious. 
He  died  in  1659.  See  p.  546. 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR— Poet,  plagiarist,  and  opium- 
eater.  Born  at  Bristol,  in  1770,  Died  near  London  in  1834.  He 
was  a  weak  man  of  genius,  whoso  reputation,  formerly  immense, 
has  declined  since  he  has  been  better  known.  But  "  Christabel" 
and  the  "Ancient  Mariner,"  will  charm  many  generations  of  readera 
yet  unborn.  Most  of  the  epigrams  which  appear  in  his  works  are 
adapted  from  Lessing.  See  pp  104,  557,  558. 


CATALOGUE     OF     SOURCES.  673 

COWPER,  WILLIAM— The  gentle  poet  of  religious  England :  bora 
1731;  died  1800.  Cowper  was  an  elegant  humorist,  despite  the 
gloominess  of  his  religious  belief!  It  is  said,  however,  that  his 
most  comic  effusions  were  written  during  periods  of  despondency. 
See  pp.  99,  241,  242. 

"CRUIKSHANK'S  OMNIBUS"— A  monthly  Magazine,  published 
at  the  period  of  the  artist's  greatest  celebrity,  principally  as  a  vehicle 
for  his  pencil.  Its  editor  was  Laman  Blanchard,  a  lively  easayist> 
and  amiable  man,  whom  anticipations  of  pecuniary  distress  subse 
quently  goaded  to  suicide.  See  pp.  431,  589. 

DEVREAUX,  S.  II. — An  American  scholar.  Translator  of  "  Yri- 
arte's  Fables,"  recently  published  in  Boston.  See  pp.  230,  241. 

ERSKTNE,  THOMAS— One  of  the  most  eminent  of  English  law 
yers.  Born  1750;  died  1823.  See  p.  559. 

FIELDING,  HENRY— The  great  English  Humorist;  author  of 
"Tom  Jones;"  born,  1707  ;  died,  1754.  See  p.  382. 

GAY,  JOHN — A  poet  and  satirist  of  the  days  of  Queen  Anne.  Born 
1688;  died,  1732.  His  wit,  gentleness,  humor,  and  animal  spirits 
appear  to  have  rendered  him  a  general  favorite.  In  worldly  mat 
ters  he  was  not  fortunate,  losing  £20,000  by  the  South  Sea  bubble  ; 
nor  did  his  interest,  which  was  by  no  means  inconsiderable,  succeed 
in  procuring  him  a  place  at  court.  He  wrote  fables,  pastorals,  the 
burlesque  poem  of  "Trivia,"  and  plays,  the  most  successful  and  cele 
brated  of  which  is  the  "Beggar's  Opera."  Of  this  work  there  exists 
a  sequel  or  second  part,  as  full  of  wit  and  satire  as  the  original,  but 
much  less  known.  Its  performance  was  suppressed  by  "Walpole, 
upon  whom  it  was  supposed  tc  reflect.  See  pp.  215,  350,  590. 

GRAY,  THOMAS — Author  of  the  "  Elegy  written  in  a  Country 
Church-yard;"  Professor  of  Modern  History  in  the  University  of 
Cambridge.  Born  in  London,  1716;  died,  1771.  Gray  was  learned 
in  History,  Architecture,  and  Natural  History.  As  a  poet,  he  was 
remarkable  for  the  labor  bestowed  on  his  poems,  for  his  reluctance 
to  publish,  and  for  the  small  number  of  his  compositions.  Carlyle, 
thinks  he  is  the  only  English  poet  who  wrote  less  than  he  ought. 
Seep  97. 

HALPIN, A  writer  for  the  press,  a  resident  of  New  York, 

author  of  "  Lyrics  by  the  Letter  H,"  published  a  year  or  two  since 
by  Derby.     See  pp.  578.  579. 

29 


674         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL— A  physician  of  Boston,  Professor 
of  Anatomy  in  Harvard  University;  born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  in 
1809.  Dr.  Holmes's  humorous  verses  are  too  well  known  to  require 
comment  in  this  place.  His  burlesque,  entitled  "Evening,  by  a 
Tailor,"  is  very  excellent  of  its  kind.  See  pp.  61,  340,  342,  517,  518. 

HOOD,  THOMAS — Author  of  the  "Song of  the  Shirt,"  which  Punch 
had  the  honor  of  first  publishing.  Born  in  1798;  died  in  1845. 
Hood  was  the  son  of  a  London  bookseller,  and  began  life  as  a  clerk. 
He  became  afterward  an  engraver,  but  was  drawn  gradually  into 
the  literary  profession,  which  he  exercised  far  more  to  the  advantage 
of  his  readers  than  his  own.  His  later  years  were  saddened  by  ill- 
health  and  poverty.  Some  of  his  coinic  verses  seem  forced  and  con 
trived,  as  though  done  for  needed  wages.  Hood  was  one  of  the 
literary  men  who  should  have  made  of  literature  a  staff',  not  a  crutch. 
It  was  in  him  to  produce,  like  Lamb,  a  few  very  admirable  tilings, 
the  execution  of  which  should  have  been  the  pleasant  occupation 
of  his  leisure,  not  the  toil  by  which  he  gained  his  bread.  See  pp. 
45,  46,  289,  294,  307,  309,  422,  423,  425,  426,  592,  594,  596. 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH— English  Journalist  and  Poet. 
Burn  in  1784  His  father  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Established 
church,  and  a  man  of  wit  and  feeling.  See  p.  583. 

JOHNSON,  DR.  SAMUEL— Born  1709 ;  died  1784.  Critic,  moral 
ist,  lexicographer,  and,  above  all,  the  hero  of  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson.  The  ponderous  philosopher  did  not  disdain,  occasionally, 
to  give  play  to  his  elephantine  wit.  See  p.  545. 

JONSON,  BEN— Bora  1574;  died  1637.  Poet,  play-wright,  and 
friend  of  Shakspeare,  in  whose  honor  he  has  left  a  noble  eulogium. 
A  manly,  sturdy,  laborious,  English  genius,  of  whoso  dramatic  pro 
ductions,  however,  but  one  ("  Every  Man  in  his  Humor")  has  re 
tained  possession  of  the  stage.  He  is  also  the  author  of  some  exqui 
site  lyrics.  See  pp.  525,  526. 

LAMB,  CHARLES— Born  in  London,  1775 ;  died,  1832.  As  a  hu 
morous  essayist,  unrivaled  and  peculiar,  he  is  known  and  loved  by 
all  who  are  likely  to  possess  this  volume.  See  pp.  29,  566. 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE— A  living  English  writer  of  consid 
erable  celebrity,  author  of  "  Imaginary  Conversations,"  contributor 
to  several  leading  periodicals.  Mr.  Landor  is  now  advanced  in 
years.  His  humorous  verses  are  few,  and  not  of  striking  excellence. 
See  p.  572. 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.          G71 

"LANTERN,"  THE — A  comic  weekly,  in  imitation  of  "Punch,"  pub 
lished  in  this  city  a  few  years  ago.  The  leading  spirit  of  tho  "  Lan 
tern"  was  Mr.  John  Brougham,  the  well-known  dramatist  and  actor. 
See  p.  194. 

"LEADER,"  THE — A  London  weekly  newspaper,  of  liberal  opinions; 
ably  written  and  badly  edited,  and,  therefore,  of  limited  circulation. 
See  p.  580. 

LESSING,  GOTTHOLD  K  PUR  AIM— The  well-known  German  au 
thor;  born  1729;  died  1781.  The  epigrams  of  Lessing  have  been 
so  frequently  stolen  by  English  writers,  that,  perhaps,  they  may  now 
be  considered  as  belonging  to  English  literature,  and  hence  entitled 
to  a  place  in  this  collection.  At  least  we  found  the  temptation  to 
add  them  to  our  stock  irresistible.  See  pp.  553,  554,  555,  556. 

LINDSAY — A  friend  of  Dean  Swift.  A  polite  and  elegant  scholar; 
an  eminent  pleader  at  the  bar  in  Dublin,  and  afterward  advanced 
to  be  one  of  the  justices  of  the  Common  Pleas.  See  p.  544. 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL— The  American  Poet.  Born  at  Bos 
ton,  in  the  year  1819.  To  Mr.  Lowell  must  be  assigned  a  high,  if 
not  the  highest  place,  among  American  writers  of  humorous  poetry. 
The  Biglow  Papers,  from  which  we  have  derived  several  excellent 
pieces  for  this  volume,  is  one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  well-sus 
tained  jeux  flesprit  in  existence.  See  pp.  522,  578,  619,  623,  626, 
029. 

MAPES,  WALTER  DE— A  noted  clerical  wit  of  Henry  the  Second's 
time.  See  p.  583. 

MOORE,  THOMAS— Tho  Irish  poet;  born  at  Dublin  in  the  year 
1780.  Moore  has  been  styled  the  best  writer  of  political  squibs 
that  ever  lived.  He  was  employed  to  write  comic  verses  on  pass 
ing  events,  by  the  conductors  of  the  "  London  Times,"  in  which 
journal  many  of  his  satirical  poems  appeared.  The  political  effu 
sions  that  gave  so  much  delight  thirty  years  ago  are,  however, 
scarcely  intelligible 'to  the  present  generation,  or  if  intelligible,  not 
interesting.  But  Moore  wrote  many  a  sprightly  stanza,  the  humor 
of  which  does  not  depend  for  its  effect  upon  local  or  cotemporary 
allusions.  This  collection  contains  most  of  them.  See  pp.  36,  37, 
38,  39,  124,  259,  260,  261,  263,  266,  267,  269,  273,  276,  415,  560, 
561,  562,  563,  564,  565. 

MORRIS,  GEORGE  P— The  father  of  polite  journalism  in  this  city, 
and  the  most  celebrated  of  American  Song-writers.  Born  in  Penn 
sylvania  about  the  beginning  of  the  present  century.  See  p.  196. 


C76         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

"PERCY  RELIQUES1' — A  celebrated  collection  of  ancient  ballads, 
edited  by  Bishop  Percy,  a  man  of  great  antiquarian  knowledge  and 
poetic  taste.  The  publication  of  the  "Percy  Reliquea"  in  the  last 
century,  introduced  the  taste  for  the  antique,  which  was  gratified  to 
the  utmost  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  which  has  scarcely  yet  ceased 
to  rage  in  some  quarters.  See  pp.  75,  77,  80. 

PHILIPS,  BARCLAY— A  living  English  writer,  of  whom  nothing  is 
known  in  this  country.  See  p.  645. 

PINDAR,  PETER— See  Wolcott. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER— The' poet  of  the  time  of  Queen  Anne;  au 
thor  of  the  "  Dunciad,"  which  has  been  styled  the  most  perfect  of 
satires.  Born  in  London,  1G88  ;  died,  1744.  See  p.  539. 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH— An  English  poet,  author 
of  "Lillian,"  born  in  London  about  the  year  1800.  Little  is  known 
of  Mr.  Praed  in  this  country,  though  it  was  here  that  his  poems 
were  first  collected  and  published  in  a  volume.  His  family  is  of 
the  aristocracy  of  the  city,  where  some  of  his  surviving  relations 
are  still  engaged  in  the  business  of  banking.  At  Eton,  Praed  was 
highly  distinguished  for  his  literary  talents.  He  was  for  some  time 
the  editor  of  "The  Etonian,''  a  piquant  periodical  published  by  the 
students.  From  Eton  he  went  to  Cambridge,  where  he  won  an  un 
precedented  number  of  prizes  for  poems  and  epigrams  in  Greek, 
Latin,  and  English.  On  returning  to  London,  he  was  associated 
with  Thomas  Babbington  Macaulay  in  the  editorship  of  "  Knight's 
Quarterly  Magazine,"  after  the  discontinuance  of  which  he  occa 
sionally  contributed  to  the  "  New  Monthly."  A  few  years  before 
his  death,  Mr.  Praed  became  a  member  of  Parliament,  but  owing 
to  his  love  of  ease  and  societv,  obtained  little  distinction  in  that 
body. 

Mr.  N.  P.  Willis  thus  writes  of  the  poet  as  he  appeared  in 
society :  "  "We  chance  to  have  it  in  our  power  to  say  a  word  as  to 
Mr.  Praed's  personal  appearance,  manners,  etc.  It  was  our  good 
fortune  when  first  in  England  (in  1834  or  '35),  to  be  a  guest  at  the 
same  hospitable  country-house  for  several  weeks.  The  party  there 
assembled  was  somewhat  a  famous  one — Miss  Jane  Porter,  Miss 
Julia  Pardoe,  Krazinski  (the  Polish  historian),  Sir  Gardiner  Wilkin 
son  (the  Oriental  traveler),  venerable  Lady  Cork  ('  Lady  Bellair'  of 
D'lsracli's  novel),  and  several  persons  more  distincruished  in  society 
than  in  literature.  Praed,  we  believe,  had  not  been  long  married, 
but  he  was  there  with  his  wife.  He  was  apparently  about  thirty- 
five,  tall,  and  of  dark  complexion,  with  a  studious  bend  in  his  shoul 
ders,  and  of  irregular  features  strongly  impressed  with  melancholy. 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         077 

His  manners  were  particularly  reserved,  though  as  unassuming  as 
they  could  well  be.  His  exquisitely  beautiful  poem  of  'Lillian' 
was  among  the  pet  treasures  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  we  had 
all  been  indulged  with  a  sight  of  it,  in  a  choicely  bound  manuscript 
copy — but  it  was  hard  to  make  him  confess  to  any  literary  habits 
or  standing.  As  a  gentleman  of  ample  means  and  retired  life,  the 
kind  of  notice  drawn  upon  him  by  the  admiration  of  this  poem, 
seemed  distasteful.  His  habits  were  very  secluded.  We  only  saw 
him  at  table  and  in  the  evening ;  and,  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  he 
was  away  in  the  remote  walks  and  woods  of  the  extensive  park 
around  the  mansion,  apparently  more  fond  of  solitude  than  of  any 
thing  else.  Mr.  Praed's  mind  was  one  of  wonderful  readiness — 
rhythm  and  rhyme  coming  to  him  with  the  flow  of  an  improvisa- 
tore.  The  ladies  of  the  party  made  the  events  of  every  day  the 
subjects  of  charades,  epigrams,  sonnets,  etc.,  with  the  design  of 
suggesting  inspiration  to  his  ready  pen ;  and  ho  was  most  bril 
liantly  complying,  with  treasures  for  each  in  her  turn." 

Mr.  Praed  died  on  the  15th  of  July,  1839,  without  having  ac 
complished  any  thing  worthy  the  promise  of  his  earlier '  years — 
another  instance  of  Life's  reversing  the  judgment  of  College.  As  a 
writer  of  agreeable  trifles  for  the  amusement  of  the  drawing-room, 
he  has  had  few  superiors,  and  it  is  said  that  a  large  number  of  his 
impromptu  effusions  are  still  in  the  possession  of  his  friends  un 
published.  Two  editions'of  his  poems  have  appeared  in  New  York, 
one  by  Langley  in  1844,  and  another  by  Redfield.  a  few  years  later. 
See  pp.  50,  52,  313,  316. 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW— Born  1664;  died  1721.  A  wit  and  poet  of  no 
small  genius  and  good  nature — one  of  the  minor  celebrities  of  the 
clays  of  Queen  Anne.  His  "Town  and  Country  Mouse,"  written 
in  ridicule  of  Dryden's  famous  "  Hind  and  Panther,"  procured  him 
the  appointment  of  Secretary  of  Embassy  at  the  Hague,  and  he 
subsequently  rose  to  be  embassador  at  Paris.  Suffering  disgrace 
with  his  patrons  he  was  afterward  recalled,  and  received  a  pension 
from  the  University  of  Oxford,  up  to  the  time  of  his  donth.  See 
pp.  85,  200,  201,  202,  534,  535,  536,  537,  651,  652. 

"  PUNCH" — Commenced  in  July,  1841,  making  its  appearance  just  at 
the  close  of  the  Whig  ministry,  under  Lord  Melbourne,  and  the  ac 
cession  of  the  Tories,  headed  by  Sir  Robert  Peel.  Originated  b.y  a 
circle  of  wits  and  literary  men  who  frequented  the  "  Shakspeare's 
Head,"  a  tavern  in  Wych-street,  London.  Mark  Lemon,  the  landlord 
was,  and  still  is,  its  editor.  He  is  of  Jewish  descent,  and  had  some 
reputation  for  ability  with  his  pen,  having  been  connected  with 
other  journals,  and  also  written  farces  and  dramatic  pieces.  Punch's 


678  CATALOG  U  E     OF     SOURCES. 

earliest  contributors  were  Douglas  Jerrold,  Albert  Smith,  Gilbert 
,Abbot  a'Bcckett  Hood  and  Maginn — Thackeray's  debUt  occurring  in 
the  third  volume.  It  is  said  that  one  evening  each  week  was  espec 
ially  devoted  to  a  festive  meeting  of  these  writers,  where,  Lemon 
presiding,  they  deliberated  as  to  the  conduct  and  course  of  the  peri 
odical.  "  Punch,"  however,  was  at  first  not  successful,  and  indeed  on 
the  point  of  being  abandoned  as  a  bad  speculation,  when  Messrs. 
Bradbury  and  Evans,  two  aspiring  printers,  now  extensive  publish 
ers,  purchased  it  at  the  very  moderate  price  of  one  hundred  pounds, 
since  which  time  it  has  continued  their  property,  and  a  valu 
able  one.  In  those  days  it  presented  a  somewhat  different  appear 
ance  from  the  present,  being  more  closely  printed,  finer  type  used, 
and  the  illustrations  (with  the  exception  of  small,  black,  silhouette. 
cuts,  after  the  style  of  those  in  similar  French  publications),  were 
comparatively  scanty.  Soon,  however,  "Punch"  throve  apace,  amply 
meriting  its  success.  To  Ilenning's  drawings  (mostly  those  of  a  po 
litical  nature),  were  added  those  of  Leech,  Kenny  Meadows,  Phiz 
(H.  K.  Browne),  Gilbert,  Alfred  Crowquill  (Forrester),  and  others — 
Doyle's  pencil  not  appearing  till  some  years  later.  Chief  of  theso 
gentlemen  in  possession  of  the  peculiar  artistic  ability  which  has 
identified  itself  with  "  Punch"  is  unquestionably  Mr.  John  Leech, 
of  whom  we  shall  subsequently  speak,  at  greater  length.  He  has 
remained  constant  to  the  journal  from  its  first  volume. 

Jerrold's  writings  date  from  the  commencement.  Many  essays 
and  satiric  sketches  over  fancy  signatures,  are  from  his  pen.  ilis 
later  and  longer  productions,  extending  through  many  volumes, 
are  "  Punch's  Letters  to  his  Sou,"  "  Punch's  Complete  Letter  Writ 
er,"  "  Twelve  Labors  of  Hercules,"  "  Autobiography  of  Tom  Thumb," 
"Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures,"  "Capsicum  House  for  Young 
Ladies,"  "  Our  Little  Bird,"  "  Mrs.  Benimble's  Tea  and  Toast,"  "  Miss 
Eobinson  Crusoe,"  and  "Mrs.  Bib's  Baby,"  the  last  two  of  which 
were  never  completed.  During  the  publication  of  the  "Caudle  Lec 
tures,"  "  Punch"  reached  the  highest  circulation  it  has  attained.  We 
have  the  authority  of  a  personal  friend  of  the  author  for  the  assertion 
that  their  heroine  was  no  fictitious  one.  The  lectures  were  im 
mensely  popular,  Englishmen  not  being  slow  to  recognize  in  Jer 
rold's  caustic  portraiture  the  features  of  a  very  formidable  household 
reality.  But  with  the  ladies  Mrs.  Caudle  proved  no  favorite,  nor,  in 
their  judgment,  did  the  "Breakfast-Table-Talk,"  of  the  Hen-pecked 
•  Husband  (subsequently  published  in  the  Almanac  of  the  current 
year),  make  amends  for  the  writer's  former  productions. 

Albert  Smith's  contributions  to  the  pages  of  "  Punch,"  were  tho 
"  Physiologies  of  the  London  Medical  Student,"  "  London  Idler,"  and 
"  Evening  Parties,"  with  other  miscellaneous  matter.  Much  of  the 
author's  own  personal  experience  is  probably  comprised  in  the  for- 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         C79 

mer,  and  his  fellow-students  and  intimates  at  Middlesex  Hospital 
were  at  no  loss  to  identify  the  majority  of  the  characters  introduced. 
Mr.  Smith's  connection  with  "  Punch"  was  not  of  long  continuance. 
A  severe  criticism  appearing  subsequently  in  its  columns,  on  his  novel 
of  the  "  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers"  (published  in  "  Bentley's  Mis 
cellany,"  of  which  journal  ho  was  then  editor),  he,  in  retaliation, 
made  an  onslaught  on  "  Punch"  in  another  story,  the  "  Pottleton 
Legacy,"  where  it  figures  under  the  title  of  the  Cracker. 

Mr.  Gilbert  a'Beckett,  who  had  before  been  engaged  in  many  un 
successful  periodicals,  found  in  "Punch"  ample  scope  for  his  wit 
and  extraordinary  faculty  of  punning.  In  "The  Comic  Blackstone," 
"  Political  Dictionary,"  "Punch's  Hoy's  Maxims,"  and  the  "  Autobi 
ography,  and  other  papers  relating  to  Mr.  Briefless,"  he  put  his 
legal  knowledge  to  a  comic  use.  Many  fugitive  minor  pieces  have 
also  proceeded  from  his  pen,  and  he  has  but  few  equals  in  that  gro 
tesque  form  of  hybrid  poetry  known  as  Macaronic.  He  is  now  a 
London  magistrate,  and  par  excellence,  the  punster  of  "  Punch." 

The  Greek  versions  of  sundry  popular  ballads,  such  as  "The  King 
of  the  Cannibal  Islands,"  were  the  work  of  Maginn.  Hood's  world- 
famous  "  Song  of  tho  Shirt,"  first  appeared  in  "  Punch's"  pages. 

Thackeray  has  also  been  an  industrious  contributor,  Commenc 
ing  with  "  Miss  Tiekletoby's  Lectures"  (an  idea  afterward  carried 
out  in  a  somewhat  different  fashion  by  a'Beckett  in  his  "  Comic  His 
tory  of  England"),  he,  besides  miscellaneous  writings,  produced  the 
"  Snob  Papers,"  "  Jeames's  Diary,"  "  Punch  in  the  East,"  "  Punch's 
Prose  Novelists,"  "The  Traveler  hi  London,"  "  Mr.  Brown's  Letters 
to  a  Young  Man  about  Town,"  and  "  The  Proser."  Of  the  merits 
of  these  works  it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  The  "  Book  of  Snobs" 
may  rank  with  its  author's  most  finished  productions.  "  Jeames's 
Diary,"  suggested  by  the  circumstance  of  a  May-fair  footman  achiev 
ing  sudden  affluence  by  railroad  speculations  during  the  ruinously 
exciting  period  of  1846,  may,  however,  be  considered  only  a  iur- 
ther  carrying  out  of  the  original  idea  of  "  Charles  Yellowplush."  A 
ballad  in  it,  "  The  Lines  to  my  Sister's  Portrait,"  is  said,  to  use  a 
vulgar,  though  expressive  phrase,  to  have  shut  up  Lord  John  Man 
ners,  who  had  achieved  some  small  reputation  as  "  one  of  the  Young 
P^ngland  poits."  Thackeray  parodied  liis  style,  and  hencelbrth  tho 
voice  of  the  minstrel  was  dumb  in  the  land.  Like  Jerrold's  "  Caudle 
Lectures,"  of  which  many  versions  appeared  at  the  London  theaters, 
Jeames's  adventures  were  dramatized.  The  "  Prose  Novelists"  con 
tain  burlesque  imitations  of  Bulwer,  D'Israeli,  Lever,  James,  Fcnni- 
more  Cooper,  and  Mrs.  Gore.  The  illustrations  accompanying  Thack 
eray's  publications  in  "Punch,"  are  by  his  own  hand,  as  are  also 
many  other  sketches  scattered  throughout  the  volumes.  They  may 
be  generally  distinguished  by  the  insertion  of  a  pair  of  spectacles  in 


680  CATALOGUE     OF    SOURCES. 

the  corner.  His  articles,  too,  frequently  bear  the  signature  "  SPEC." 
Not  until  the  commencement  of  1855  did  Thackeray  relinquish  his 
connection  with  "  Punch."  An  allusion  to  this,  from  his  pen,  con 
tained  in  an  essay  on  the  genius  of  Leech,  and  published  in  the 
"  Westminster  Review,"  was  commented  upon  very  bitterly  by  Jer- 
rold,  in  a  notice  of  the  article  which  appeared  in  "  Lloyd's  Weekly 
Newspaper,"  of  which  he  is  editor. 

During  the  last  five  years,  other  writers,  among  which  may  be 
enumerated  the  Mayhew  brothers,  Mr.  Tom  Taylor,  Angus  Reach, 
and  Shirley  Brooks,  have  found  a  field  for  their  talents  in  "  Punch.' 
Only  Jerrold,  a'Beckett,  and  the  editor,  Mark  Lemon,  remain  of  the 
original  contributors.  Its  course  has  been  a  varied,  but  perfectly 
independent  one,  generally,  however,  following  the  lead  of  the  al 
mighty  "  Times"  that  glory  and  shame  of  English  journalism,  on 
political  questions.  In  earlier  days  it  was  every  way  more  demo 
cratic,  and  the  continuous  ridicule  both  of  pen  and  pencil  directed 
against  Prince  Albert,  was  said  to  have  provoked  so  much  resent 
ment  on  the  part  of  the  Queen,  that  she  proposed  interference  to 
prevent  the  artist  Doyle  supplying  two  frescos  to  the  pavilion  at 
Buckingham  Palace.  "  Punch's"  impartiality  has  been  shown  by 
attacks  on  the  extremes  and  absurdities  of  all  parties,  and  tliere  can 
be  little  question  that  it  has  had  considerable  influence  in  producing 
political  reform,  and  a  large  and  liberal  advocacy  of  all  popular  ques 
tions.  In  behalf  of  that  great  change  of  national  policy,  the  repeal 
of  the  Corn  Laws,  "  Punch"  fought  most  vigorously,  not,  however, 
forgetting  to  bestow  a  few  raps  of  his  baton  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
Premier  whose  wisdom  or  sense  of  expediency  induced  such  sudden 
tergiversation  as  to  bring  it  about.  O'Connell's  blatant  and  venal 
patriotism  was  held  up  to  merited  derision,  which  his  less  wary,  but 
more  honest  followers  in  agitation,  O'Brien,  Meagher,  and  Mitchell, 
equally  shared.  Abolition  (or  at  least  modification)  of  the  Game 
Laws,  and  of  the  penalty  of  death,  found  championship  in  "Punch," 
though  the  latter  was  summarily  dropped  upon  a  change  in  public 
opinion,  perhaps  mainly  induced  by  one  of  Carlyle's  "Latter  Day" 
pamphlets.  "  Punch"  has  repeatedly  experienced  (and  merited)  the 
significant  honor  of  being  denied  admission  to  the  dominions  of  con 
tinental  monarchs.  Louis  Philippe  interdicted  its  presence  in 
France,  even  (if  we  recollect  aright)  before  the  Spanish  marriages 
had  provoked  its  fiercest  attacks — subsequently,  however,  withdraw 
ing  his  royal  veto.  In  Spain,  Naples,  the  Papal  Dominions,  those  of 
Austria,  Russia,  and  Prussia,  the  hunch-backed  jester  has  been 
often  under  ban  as  an  unholy  thing,  or  only  tolerated  in  a  mutilated 
form.  Up  to  the  commencement  of  the  late  war,  strict  meas 
ures  of  this  kind  were  in  operation  upon  the  Russian  frontier,  but 
"  Punch"  now  is  freely  accorded  ingress  in  the  Czar's  dominions — 


CATALOGUE    OF    SOURCES.  081 

probably  as  a  means  of  keeping  up  the  feeling  of  antagonism  toward 
England. 

Its  success  has  provoked  innumerable)  rivals  aud  imitators,  from 
the  days  of  "Judy,"  "Toby,"  "The  Squib,"  "Joe  Miller,"  "Great 
Gun,"  and  "  Puppet-Show,"  to  those  of  "  Diogenes"  and  "  Falstaff." 
None  have  achieved  permanent  popularity,  and  future  attempts 
would  most  likely  be  attended  with  similar  failure,  as  "  Punch"  has 
a  firm  hold  on  the  likings  of  the  English  people,  and  especially  Lon 
doners.  It  fairly  amounts  to  one  of  their  institutions.  Like  all 
journals  of  merit  and  independence,  it  has  had  its  law  troubles, 
more  than  one  action  for  libel  having  been  commenced  against  it. 
James  Silk  Buckingham,  the  traveler  aud  author,  took  this  course, 
in  consequence  of  the  publication  of  articles  disparaging  a  club-  of 
his  originating,  known  as  the  "  British  and  Foreign  Institute."  A 
Jew  clothes-man,  named  Hart,  obtained  a  small  sum  as  damages 
from  "Punch."  But  Alfred  Bunn,  lessee  of  Drury  Lane  Theater, 
libretto-scribbler,  and  author  of  certain  trashy  theatrical  books, 
though  most  vehemently  "  pitched  into,"  resorted  to  other  modes 
than  legal  redress.  He  produced  a  pamphlet  of  a  shape  and  appear 
ance  closely  resembling  his  tormentor,  filled  not  only  with  quizzical, 
satirical,  and  rhyming  articles  directed  against  Lemon,  a'Beckett, 
and  Jerrold  (characterizing  them  as  Thick-head,  Sleek-head,  and 
Wrong-head),  but  with  caricature  cuts  of  each.  Whether  in  direct 
consequence  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  "the  poet  Bunti"  was  unmo 
lested  in  future. 

Our  notice  would  scarcely  be  complete  without  a  few  lines  devoted 
to  the  "Punch"  artist-?,  and  more  especially  John  Leech.  Doyle 
(the  sou  of  H.  B.,  the  well-known  political  caricaturist),  whose  exqui 
site  burlesque  medieval  drawings  illustrative  of  the  "  Manners  and 
Customs  of  ye  Englishe,"  will  be  remembered  by  all  familiar  with 
"  Punch's''  pages,  relinquished  his  connection  with  the  journal  and 
the  yearly  salary  of  eight  hundred  pounds,  in  consequence  of  the 
Anti-papal  onslaughts  which  followed  the  nomination  of  Cardinal 
Wiseman  to  the  (Catholic)  Archbishop  of  Westminster.  The  artist 
held  the  older  faith,  and  was  also  a  personal  friend  of  "  His  Emi 
nence."  His  place  was  then  filled  by  John  Tenniel,  a  historical 
painter,  who  had  supplied  a  cartoon  to  the  Palace  of  Westminster, 
and  is  still  employed  on  "  Punch,"  he,  in  conjunction  with  John 
Leech,  and  an  occasional  outsider,  furnishing  the  entire  illustrations. 
John  Leech,  himself,  to  whom  the  periodical  unquestionably  owes 
half  its  success,  has  been  constant  to  "  Punch"  from  an  early  day. 
He  has  brought  caricature  into  the  region  of  the  fine  arts,  and  be 
come  the  very  Dickens  of  the  pencil  in  his  portrayal  of  the  humorous 
side  of  life.  Before  his  advent,  comic  drawing  was  confined  to  very 
limited  topics,  outre  drawings  and  ugliness  of  feature-?  forming  the 
29* 


682  CATALOGUE     OF     SOURCES. 

fun — such  as  it  was.  Seymour's  "  Cockney  Sportsmen,"  and  Cruik- 
shauk's  wider  (yet  not  extensive)  range  of  subjects,  were  then  the 
best  things  extant  How  stands  the  case  now?  Let  "Punch's" 
twenty-nine  volumes,  with  their  ample  store  of  pictorial  mirth  of 
Leech's  creating,  so  kindly,  so  honest,  so  pleasant  and  graceful,  an 
swer.  Contrast  their  blameless  wit  and  humor  with  the  equivoque 
and  foul  double  entendre  of  French  drawings,  and  think  of  the  differ 
ence  involuntarily  suggested  between  the  social  atmospheres  of  Paris 
and  London. 

Leech  is  a  good-looking  fellow,  approaching  the  age  of  forty,  and 
not  unlike  one  of  his  own  handsome  "swells"  in  personal  appear 
ance.  The  Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  1855  contained  his  por 
trait,  painted  by  Millais,  the  chief  of  tho  pui-Raptiaelite  artists,  who 
is  said  to  be  his  friend.  As  may  bo  gathered  from  his  many  sport 
ing  sketches,  Leech  is  fond  of  horses,  and  piques  himself  on  "  know 
ing  the  points"  of  a  good  animal.  (We  may  mention,  by-the-by, 
that  Mr.  "  Briggs"  of  equestrian  celebrity  had  his  original  on  the 
Stock  Exchange.)  He  in  summer  travels  considerably,  forwarding 
his  sketches  to  the  "  Punch"  office,  generally  penciling  the  accom 
panying  words  on  the  wood-block.  In  one  of  the  past  volumes,  dat 
ing  some  eight  or  ten  years  back,  he  has  introduced  himself  in  a  cut 
designated  "our  artist  during  the  hot  weather,"  wherein  he  appears 
with  his  coat  off,  reclining  upon  a  sofa,  and  informing  a  pretty  serv 
ant-girl  who  enters  the  room,  that  "  he  is  busy."  Quizzical  portraits 
of  the  writers  of  "  Punch"  have  been  introduced  in  its  pages.  In 
Jerrold's  "Capsicum  House"  (vol.  XII.),  the  author's  portrait,  bur 
lesqued  into  the  figure  of  "  Punch,"  occurs  more  than  once.  And  a 
double-page  cut,  entitled  "  Mr.  Punch's  Fancy  Ball,"  in  the  early 
part  of  the  same  volume,  comprises  sketches  of  the  then  entire  carps 
of  contributors,  artistic  and  literary.  They  are  drawn  as  forming 
the  orchestra,  Lemon  conducting,  Jerrold  belaboring  a  big  drum, 
Thackeray  playing  on  the  flute,  Leech  the  violin,  and  others  extract 
ing  harmony  from  divers  musical  instruments.  Again  they  appear 
at  a  later  date,  as  a  number  of  boys  at  play,  in  an  illustration  at  the 
commencement  of  Vol.  XXVII. 

"  Punch's"  office  is  at  85  Fleet-street  The  engraving,  printing, 
and  stereotyping  is  performed  at  Lombard-street,  Whitefriars,  where 
its  proprietors  have  extensive  premises.  See  pp.  56,  57,  321,  322, 
324,  325,  321,  328,  330,  331,  333,  334,  336,  338,  339,  432,  433,  434, 
435,  436,  437,  438,  439,  440,  441,  442,  443,  444,  445,  446,  447,  449, 
450,  451,  453,  455,  456,  457,  458,  459,  460,  461,  462,  403,  464,  465, 
466,  467,  468,  469,  470,  471,  472,  473,  474,  475,  478,  480,  485,  492, 
496,  497,  498,  499,  572,  573,  574,  575,  576,  630,  631,  632,  633,  634. 
635,  636,  637,  638,  G40,  643,  644. 


CATALOGUE  OP  SOURCES.         683 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES,"  by  James  and  Horace  Smith,  published 
in  London,  October,  1812.  The  most  successful  jeu  d1  esprit  of  mod 
ern  times,  having  survived  the  occasion  that  suggested  it  for  m-arly 
half  a  century,  and  still  being  highly  popular.  It  has  run  through 
twenty  editions  in  England,  and  three  in  America.  The  opening 
of  Drury-lane  theater  in  1802,  after  having  been  burned  and  re 
built,  and  the  offering  of  a  prize  of  filly  pounds  by  the  manager 
for  the  best  opening  address,  were  the  circumstances  which  sug 
gested  the  production  of  the  "  Rejected  Addresses."  The  idea  of 
the  work  was  suddenly  conceived,  and  it  was  executed  in  six 
weeks.  In  the  preface  to  the  eighteenth  London  edition  the  au 
thors  give  an  interesting  statement  of  the  difficulties  they  encoun 
tered  in  getting  the  volume  published : 

"  Urged  forward  by  our  hurry,  and  trusting  to  chance,  two  very 
bad  coadjutors  in  any  enterprise,  we  at  length  congratulated  our 
selves  on  having  completed  our  task  in  time  to  have  it  printed  and 
published  by  the  opening  of  the  theater.  But,  alas !  our  difficulties,  so 
far  from  being  surmounted,  seemed  only  to  be  beginning.  Strangers 
to  the  arcana  of  the  bookseller's  trade,  and  unacquainted  with  their 
almost  invincible  objection  to  single  volumes  of  low  price,  especially 
when  tendered  by  writers  who  Jiave  acquired  n&  previous  name,  we 
little  anticipated  that  they  would  refuse  to  publish  our  '  Rejected  Ad 
dresses,'  even  although  we  asked  nothing  for  the  copyright.  Such, 
however,  proved  to  be  the  case.  Our  manuscript  was  perused  and 
returned  to  us  by  several  of  the  most  eminent  publishers.  Well  do 
we  remember  betaking  ourselves  to  one  of  the  craft  in  Bond-street, 
whom  we  found  in  a  back  parlor,  with  his  gouty  leg  propped  upon 
a  cushion,  in  spite  of  which  warning  he  diluted  his  luncheon  with 
frequent  glasses  of  Madeira.  '  What  have  you  already  written  ?' 
was  his  first  question,  and  interrogatory  to  which  we  had  been  sub 
jected  in  almost  every  instance.  'Nothing  by  which  we  can  bo 
known.'  'Then  I  am  afraid  to  undertake  the  publication.'  Wo 
presumed  timidly  to  suggest  that  every  writer  must  have  a  begin 
ning,  and  that  to  refuse  to  publish  for  him  until  he  had  acquired  a 
name,  was  to  imitate  the  sapient  mother  who  cautioned  her  son 
against  going  into  the  water  until  he  could  swim.  '  An  old  joke — 
a  regular  Joel'  exclaimed  our  companion,  tossing  oft'  another 
bumper.  'Still  older  than  Joe  Miller,' was  our  reply;  'for,  if  we 
mistake  not,  it  is  the  very  first  anecdote  in  the  facetiae  of  Hierocles.' 
'Ha,  sirs  I'  resumed  the  bibliopolist,  'you  are  learned,  are  you? 
So,  hoh! — Well,  leave  your  manuscript  with  me;  I  will  look  it  over 
to-night,  and  give  you  an  answer  to-morrow.'  Punctual  as  the 
clock  we  presented  ourselves  at  his  door  on  the  following  morning, 
when  our  papers  were  returned  to  us  with  the  observation — '  These 
trifles  are  really  not  deficient  in  smartness ;  they  are  well,  vastly 


084         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

well  for  beginners ;  but  they  will  never  do — never.  They  would 
not  pay  for  advertising,  and  without  it  I  should  not  sell  fifty  copies.' 

';  This  was  discouraging  enough.  If  the  most  experienced  pub 
lishers  feared  to  be  out  of  pocket  by  the  work,  it  was  manifest  d 
fortiori,  that  its  writers  ran  a  risk  of  being  still  more  heavy  losers, 
should  they  undertake  the  publication  on  their  own  account.  We 
had  no  objection  to  raise  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  others ;  but  to 
do  it  at  our  own  cost,  uncertain  as  we  were  to  what  extent  we 
might  be  involved,  had  never  entered  into  our  contemplation.  In 
this  dilemma,  our  'Addresses,'  now  in  every  sense  rejected,  might 
probably  have  never  seen  the  light,  had  not  some  good  angel  whis 
pered  us  to  betake  ourselves  to  Mr.  John  Miller,  a  dramatic  pub 
lisher,  then  residing  in  Bow-street,  Covent  Garden.  No  sooner 
had  this  gentleman  looked  over  our  manuscript,  than  he  immedi 
ately  offered  to  take  upon  himself  all  the  risk  of  publication,  and  to 
give  us  half  the  profits,  should  there  be  any ;  a  liberal  proposition, 
with  which  we  gladly  closed.  So  rapid  and  decided  was  its  suc 
cess,  at  which  none  were  more  unfeignedly  astonished  than  its  au 
thors,  that  Mr.  Miller  advised  us  to  collect  some  'Imitations  of 
Horace,'  which  had  appeared  anonymously  in  the  'Monthly  Mirror,' 
offering  to  publish*  them  upon  the  same  terms.  We  did  so  accord 
ingly;  and  as  new  editions  of  the  'Rejected  Addresses'  were  called 
for  in  quick  succession,  we  were  shortly  enabled  to  sell  our  half 
copyright  in  the  two  works  to  Mr.  Miller,  for  one  thousand  pounds! 
"We  have  entered  into  this  unimportant  detail,  not  to  gratify  any 
vanity  of  our  own,  but  to  encourage  such  literanr  beginners  as  may 
be  placed  in  similar  circumstances ;  as  well  as  to  impress  upon  pub- 
Ushers  the  propriety  of  giving  more  consideration  to  the  possible 
merit  of  the  works  submitted  to  them,  than  to  the  mere  magic  of  a 
name." 

The  authors  add,  that  not  one  of  the  poets  whom  they  "  auda 
ciously  burlesqued,"  took  offense  at  the  ludicrous  imitation  of  their 
style.  From  "  Sir  "Walter  Scott,"  they  observe,  "  we  received  favors 
and  notice,  both  public  and  private,  which  it  will  be  difficult  to 
forget,  because  we  had  not  the  smallest  claim  upon  his  kindness. 
'  I  certainly  must  have  written  this  myself!'  said  that  fine  tem 
pered  man  to  one  of  the  authors,  pointing  to  the  description  of  the 
Fire,  '  although  I  forgot  upon  what  occasion.'  Lydia  White,  a  lit 
erary  lad}7-,  who  was  prone  to  feed  the  lions  of  the  day,  invited  one 
of  us  to  dinner ;  but,  recollecting  afterward  that  William  Spencer 
formed  one  of  the  party,  wrote  to  the  latter  to  put  him  off;  telling 
him  that  a  man  was  to  be  at  her  table  whom  he  '  would  not  like  to 
meet.'  'Pray  who  is  this  whom  I  should  not  like  to  meet?'  in 
quired  the  poet.  '0!'  answered  the  lady,  'one  of  those  men  who 
have  made  that  shameful  attack  upon  you  !'  'The  very  man  upon 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         685 

earth  I  should  like  to  know !'  rejoined  the  lively  and  careless  bard. 
The  two  individuals  accordingly  met,  and  have  continued  fast 
friends  ever  since.  Lord  Byron,  too,  wrote  thus  to  Mr.  Murray 
from  Italy :  '  Tell  him  wo  forgive  him,  were  he  twenty  times  our 
satirist.' 

"It  may  not  be  amiss  to  notice,  in  this  place,  one  criticism  of  .a 
Leicester  clergyman,  which  may  be  pronounced  unique :  '  I  do  not 
see  why  they  should  have  been  rejected,'  observed  the  matter-of- 
fact  annotator;  'I  think  some  of  them  very  good!'  Upon  the 
whole,  few  have  been  the  instances,  in  the  acrimonious  history  of 
literature,  where  a  malicious  pleasantry  like  the  'Rejected  Ad 
dresses' — which  the  parties  ridiculed  might  well  consider  more  an 
noying  than  a  direct  satire — instead  of  being  met  by  querulous  bit 
terness  or  petulant  retaliation,  has  procured  for  its  authors  the 
acquaintance,  or  conciliated  the  good-will,  of  those  whom  they  had 
the  most  audaciously  burlesqued." 

James  Smith  died  in  London  on  the  29th  of  December,  1836,  ia 
the  sixty-fourth  year  of  his  age.  His  brother  survived  him  many 
years.  Both  were  admired  and  ever-welcome  members  of  the  best 
society  of  London.  See  pp.  393,  396,  402,  408, 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL — The  English  poet  and  banker,  recently  de 
ceased.  Author  of  a  "pretty  poem,"  entitled,-  " The  Pleasures  of 
Memory."  In  his  old  age,  he  was  noted  for  the  bitter  wit  of  his 
conversation.  See  p,  566. 

SAXE,  JOHN  G — Editor  of  the  "Burlington  Gazette,"  and  "Wan 
dering  Minstrel.  The  witty  poems  of  Mr.  Saxo  are  somewhat  in 
the  manner  of  Hood.  To  be  fully  appreciated  they  must  bo  hoard, 
as  they  roll  in  sonorous  volumes,  from  his  own  lips.  His  collected 
poems  were  published  a  few  years  ago  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and 
have  already  reached  a  ninth  edition.  See  pp.  68,  69,  343,  519, 
577,  578. 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER— Born  1771;  died,  1832.  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
though  he  excelled  all  his  cotemporaries  in  the  humorous  delinea 
tion  of  character,  wrote  little  humorous  verse.  The  two  pieces 
published  in  this  volume  are  so  excellent  that  one  is  surprised  to 
mid  no  more  of  the  same  description  in  his  writings.  See  pp.  115, 
559. 

SHERIDAN,  DR.  THOMAS — Noted  for  being  an  intimate  friend  of 
Dean  Swift,  and  the  grandfather  of  Riohard  Brinsley  Sheridan. 
Born  in  1684;  died  in  1738.  He  was  an  eccentric,  witty,  some 
what  learned,  Dublin  schoolmaster.  He  published  some  sermons 


686         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

and  a  translation  of  Persius ;  acquired  great  celebrity  as  a  teacher ; 
but  through  the  imprudence  that  distinguished  the  family,  closed  his 
life  in  poverty.  We  may  infer  from  the  few  specimens  of  his  face 
tious  writings  that  have  been  preserved  that  he  was  one  of  the 
wittiest  of  a  nation  of  wits.  One  or  two  of  his  epigrams  are  ex 
quisitely  fine.  See  pp.  212,  545. 

SHERIDAN,  RICHARD  BRINSLEY— Author  of  the  "Rivals,"  and 
the  "School  for  Scandal."  Born  at  Dublin  in  1751;  died,  1816. 
Sheridan  must  have  written  more  humorous  poetry  than  we  have 
been  able  to  discover.  It  is  probable  that  most  of  his  epigrams 
and  verified  repartees  have  either  not  been  preserved,  or  have 
escaped  our  search.  Moore,  in  his  "Life  of  Sheridan,"  gives  speci 
mens  of  his  satirical  verses,  but  only  a  few,  and  but  one  of  striking 
excellence.  See  pp.  281,  559. 

SMITH,  HORACE— See  "  Rejected  Addresses." 
SMITH,  JAMES— See  "  Rejected  Addresses." 

SMITH,  REV.  SYDNEY— The  jovial  prebendary  of  St.  Paul's,  the 
wittiest  Englishman  that  ever  lived;  died  in  1845.  Except  the 
"  Recipe  for  Salad,"  and  an  epigram,  we  have  found  no  comic 
verses  by  him.  He  "  leaked  another  way."  See  pp.  40,  566. 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT— The  English  poet  and  man  of  letters  ;  born 
in  1774.  Southey  wrote  a  great  deal  of  humorous  verse,  much  of 
which  is  ingenious  and  fluent.  He  was  amazingly  dexterous  in 
the  use  of  words,  and  excelled  all  his  cotemporaries,  except  Byron 
and  Barham,  in  the  art  of  rhyming.  See  pp.  26,  28,  105,  250,  388, 
389,  390,  391,  392. 

SWIFT,  JONATHAN— Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  Dublin.  Born  1667 ; 
died,  1739.  It  were  superfluous  to  speak  of  the  career  or  abilities 
of  this  great  but  most  unhappy  man,  who  unquestionably  ranks 
highest  amid  the  brilliant  names  of  that  brilliant  epoch.  His  works 
speak  for  him,  and  will  to  all  time.  Of  his  poetical  writings  it  may 
be  said  that  though  only  surpassed  in  wit  and  humor  by  his  more 
universally  known  prose,  they  are  infinitely  nastier  than  any  thing 
else  in  the  English  language.  They  have,  however,  the  negative 
virtue  of  being  nowise  licentious  or  demoralizing — or  at  least  no 
more  so  than  is  inseparable  from  the  choice  of  obscene  and  repul- 
i  sive  subjects.  Nearly  all  his  unobjectionable  comic  verses  may  be 
found  in  this  volume.  See  pp.  204,  205,  206,  358,  359,  360,  365, 
539,  540,  541,  542,  543,  544,  585,  586,  652,  653,  654,  655,  656, 
657,  658,  659,  660,  661,  662. 


CATALOGUE    OF    SOURCES.  r       GS7 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE— The  greatest  of  living 
satirists.  Born  at  Calcutta  of  English  parents,  in  1811.  Most  of 
Mr.  Thackeray's  comic  verses  appeared  originally  in  "Punch." 
They  have  recently  been  collected  and  published  in  a  volume  with 
other  and  more  serious  pieces.  This  collection  contains  nothing 
more  mirth-provoking  than  the  "Ballads  of  Pleaceman  X,"  by  Mr. 
Thackeray.  See  pp.  54,  184,  191,  318,  319,  597,  601,  603,  606, 
610,  613,  617. 

WAKE,  WILLIAM  BASIL — An  English  writer,  contributor  to 
"Hone's  Every  Day  Book."  See  p.  102. 

WALLER,  EDMUND— Born  in  Warwickshire,  England,  in  1608. 
Poet,  man  of  fortune,  member  of  the  Long  Parliament,  and  traitor 
to  the  People's  Cause.  He  was  fined  ten  thousand  pounds  and 
banished,  but  Cromwell  permitted  his  return,  and  the  poet  rewarded 
his  clemency  by  a  panegyric.  See  pp.  533,  534 

WESLEY,  REV.  SAMUEL— A  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  En 
gland;  father  of  the  celebrated  John  Wesley;  author  of  a  volume 
of  poems,  entitled  "Maggots;"  born  in  1662;  died  in  1785.  See 
p.  566. 

WILLIAMS,  SIR  CHARLES  HANBURY— A  noted  wit  of  George 
the  Second's  time ;  born  in  1709  ;  died,  1759.  He  was  a  friend  of 
Walpole,  sat  in  parliament  for  Monmouth,  and  rose  to  some  distinc 
tion  in  the  diplomatic  service.  An  edition  of  his  writings  in  three 
volumes  was  published  in  London  in  1822.  Time  has  robbed  his 
satires  of  their  point,  by  burying  in  oblivion  the  circumstances  that 
gave  rise  to  them.  A  single  specimen  of  his  writings  is  all  that 
was  deemed  worthy  of  place  in  this  volume.  See  p.  87. 

WILLIS,  N.  P. — The  well-known  American  poet  and  journalist. 
Mr.  Willis  has  written  many  humorous  poems,  but  only  a  few  have 
escaped  the  usual  fate  of  newspaper  verses.  Born  at  Portland, 
Maine,  1807.  See  pp.  60,  62,  63,  64,  65,  66. 

WOLCOTT,  JOHN  (Peter  Pindar),  the  most  voluminous,  and  one  of 
the  best,  of  the  humorous  poets  who  have  written  in  the  English 
language.  He  was  born  in  Devonshire,  England,  and  flourished  in 
the  reign  of  George  III.,  whose  peculiarities  it  was  his  delight  to 
ridicule.  No  king  was  ever  so  mercilessly  and  so  successfully  lam 
pooned  by  a  poet  as  George  III.  by  Peter  Pindar.  Wolcott  wag 
by  profession  a  Doctor  of  Medicine.  In  1766,  we  find  him  accom- 


688         CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES. 

• 

panying  his  relative,  Sir  William  Trelawncy,  to  Jamaica,  of  which 
island  Sir  "William  had  been  appointed  governor.  While  there,  the 
rector  of  a  valuable  living  died,  and  Dr.  Wolcott  conceived  the  idea 
of  entering  the  church  and  applying  for  the  vacant  rectorship.  To 
this  end  he  began  actually  to  perform  the  duties  of  the  parish,  read 
ing  prayers  and  preaching,  and  soon  after  returned  to  England  to 
take  orders,  provideed  with  powerful  recommendations.  To  his 
great  disappointment,  the  Bishop  of  London  refused  him  ordination, 
and  the  reader  of  Peter  Pindar  will  not  be  at  a  loss  to  guess  the 
reason  of  the  refusal.  Wolcott  now  established  himself  in  Truro, 
and  continued  in  the  successful  practice  of  medicine  there  for  sev 
eral  years. 

At  Truro,  he  met  the  youthful  Opie.  "  It  is  much  to  his  honor," 
says  one  who  wrote  in  Wolcott's  own  lifetime,  "  that  during  his 
residence  in  Cornwall,  he  discovered,  and  encouraged,  the  fine  tal 
ents  of  the  late  Opie,  the  artist ;  a  man  of  such  modesty,  simplicity 
of  manners,  and  ignorance  of  the  world,  that  it  is  probablo  his 
genius  would  have  lain  obscure  and  useless,  had  he  not  met,  in  Dr. 
Wolcott,  with  a  judicious  friend,  who  knew  how  to  appreciate  his 
worth,  and  to  recommend  it  to  the  admiration  of  the  world.  The. 
Doctor's  taste  in  painting  has  already  been  noticed ;  and  it  may 
now  be  added,  that  perhaps  few  men  have  attained  more  correct 
notions  on  the  subject,  and  the  fluency  with  which  he  expatiates  on 
the  beauties  or  defects  of  the  productions  of  the  ancient  or  modem 
school,  has  been  amply  acknowledged  by  all  who  have  shared  in 
his  company.  The  same  taste  appears  to  have  directed  him  to 
some  of  the  first  subjects  of  his  poetical  satire,  when  he  began  to 
treat  the  public  with  the  pieces  which  compose  these  volumes. 
The  effect  of  these  poems  on  the  public  mind  will  not  be  soon  for 
got.  Here  appeared  a  new  poet  and  a  new  critic,  a  man  of  un 
questionable  taste  and  luxuriant  fancy,  combined  with  such  powers 
of  satire,  as  became  tremendously  formidable  to  all  who  had  the 
misfortune  to  fall  under  his  displeasure.  It  was  acknowledged  at 
the  same  time,  that  amid  some  personal  acrimony,  and  some  affec 
tionate  preferences,  not  far  removed,  perhaps,  from  downright  preju 
dice,  he  in  general  grounded  his  praise  and  censure  upon  solid 
principles,  and  carried  the  public  mind  along  with  him,  although 
sometimes  at  the  heavy  expense  of  individuals." 

Later  in  life  Dr.  Wolcott  removed  to  London,  where  he  died  at  an 
advanced  age.  His  writings  were,  as  may  be  supposed,  eagerly 
read  at  the  time  of  their  publication,  but  since  the  poet's  death, 
they  have  scarcely  received  the  attention  which  then1  merits  de 
serve.  The  present  collection  contains  all  of  his  best  poems  which 
are  not  of  a  character  too  local  and  cotemporary,  or  too  coarse  in 
expression,  to  be  enjoyed  by  the  modern  reader.  See  pp.  21,  22,  24, 


CATALOGUE  OF  SOURCES.         080 

89,  90,  91,  93,  95,  216,  217,  218,  220,  222,  223,  226,  231,  233,  236, 
238,  367,  546,  547,  548,  549,  550,  551. 

YRTARTE,  DON  TOM  AS  DE — An  eminent  Spanish  poet,  born  at 
Teneriffo  about  1760.  He  is  known  to  English  readers  chiefly 
through  his  "Literary  Fables,"  of  which,  specimens,  translated  by 
Mr.  Devereaux,  are  given  in  this  volume.  Yriarte  also  wrote  cc~- 
edies  and  essays.  See  pp.  239,  241. 


THE  LETTERS  OF 

MADAME     DE     SEVIGNE 

TO  HER  DAUGHTER  AND  FRIENDS. 

EDITED    BY   MRS.    SARAH   J.   HALE, 

Author  of  "  Northwood,"   "  Woman's  Record,"  etc. 
Being  Vol.  I.  of  the  Library  of  Standard  Letters. 

i  Vol.,  izmo.     438pp.     Price  $1.25. 


"  Madame  de  Sevigne,  whose  letters  are  here  published,  was  one  of  those  gifted  ladies 
whose  polished  manners  and  brilliant  intellectual  accomplishments  imparted  such  luster  to 
the  Court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  ;  and  her  letters— most  of  which  were  addressed  to  her 
daughter— not  only  give  particulars  which  afford  a  perfect  picture  of  the  times,  but  are  also 
distinguished  by  the  easy  gracefulness  of  their  style,  and  the  charming  maternal  tenderness 
which  shines  through  all." — Boston  Traveler. 

"  As  a  model  of  epistolary  correspondence,  these  letters  stand  unsurpassed."— New  York 
Dispatch. 

"  Apart  from  the  personal  interest  in  Madame  de  Sevigne  which  the  work  naturally  ex 
cites,  the  volume  affords  a  good  insight  into  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  age  in  which 
she  lived,  and  is  also  valuable  to  the  historical  student  who  desires  to  peruse  a  pleasant 
picture  of  social  life  in  France  two  centuries  ago  "—Boston,  Transcript. 

"  Her  letters  are  instructing  and  entertaining,  embracing  nearly  every  variety  of  subject." 
—Phila.  Sat.  Evening  Mail. 

"  Her  letters  to  bar  daughter  and  friends  have  ever  been  regarded  as  models  of  this,  one 
of  the  most  difficult  and  delightful  species  of  composition."—  N.  Y.  Observer. 

"  These  letters  are  written  in  simple,  easy  periods,  and  are  remarkable  for  that  combina 
tion  of  wit,  wisdom,  and  charity,  which  is  so  rare  and  so  attractive."— N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"  Their  lively  pictures  of  French  manners,  and  their  trustworthy  accounts  of  historical 
events,  will  always  secure  to  them  a  large  circle  of  intelligent  readers." — New  York 
Tribune. 

"  As  a  family  book,  this  volume  can  not  but  be  welcome." — Boston  Post. 

"  While  her  letters  are  written  with  snch  almost  unparalleled  grace  aud  beauty,  they  are 
highly  characteristic  of  the  period  in  which  they  were  written,  and  reveal  many  curious 
facts  illustrative  of  French  society." — Boston  Puritan  Recorder. 

"Nothing  can  exceed  the  grace,  the  liveliness,  the  simple  beauty  of  these  letters."— 
Chicago  Christian  Times. 

"  The  irresistible  charms  of  their  easy,  flowing  diction,  not  only  reflect  the  chameleon  hues 
of  an  acute  and  versatile  intellect,  but  are  the  vehicles  of  high  moral  and  religious  senti 
ments."—  Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  There  is  a  point  and  piquancy  about  these  letters ;  a  ready,  graceful,  off-hand  style, 
that  is  truly  captivating."— Phila.  Dollar  Neictpaper. 

"  NTo  praise  can  be  too  extravagant  when  applied  to  the  letters  and  genius  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne."— Boston  Christian  Freeman. 

"  Her  letters  admit  the  reader  into  the  inner  recesses  of  French  chateaux  and  snlons,  and 
make  him  acquainted  with  the  '  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  its  form  and  pressure.'  " — 
N.  Y.  Life  Illustrated. 

"  They  afford  a  glimpse  of  French  society  at  a  period  when  great  men  and  distinguished 
women  were  upon  the  stage,  and  abound  in  thoughts  which  are  suggestive."— liuffalo 
Courier. 

"  They  arc  delightful  specimens  of  epistolary  correspondence."— Union  Journal. 


THE  LETTERS  OF 

LADY  MARY  W.  MONTAGUE. 

indited  by  MRS.  SARAH  J.  HALS, 

Author     of  "  Woman's  Record,"    "  Northwood/'     "Vi.il 
of  Love,"   etc.,    being    Volume    II.    of   the 
"  Library  of  Standard  Letters." 

I     Vol.     i  2  m  o .       408    pp.       Price     $1.25. 


"  The  work  can  hardly  fail  of  interesting  deeply  the  American  reader.  Larly  JTary  lived 
and  wrote  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  our  laud  was  a  component  part 
of  the  British  Empire,  and  consequently  her  genius  and  her  fame  are  ours  by  inheritance. 
Her  letters  will  be  found  valuable,  as  well  as  amusing,  aiding  the  student  of  history  to 
catch  the  manners  and  opinions  of  English  society  in  high  life,  then  the  dominant  power 
of  the  realm,  at  the  time  Benjamin  Franklin  and  his  co-patriots  in  this  western  world  were 
working  out  the  problem  of  American  independence  and  popular  sovereignty." 

"  They  are  the  utterances  of  a  cultivated  lady  of  the  close  of  the  last  century  ;  they  Trore 
addressed  to  members  of  her  own  family,  to  distinguished  ladies,  and  to  liierary  ch  traders, 
among  whom  Pope  is  conspicuous,  and  they  will  thus  alford  considerable  insight  into  the 
various  phases  of  English  society  half  a  century  ago.  " — Vtica  (N.  Y.)  Observer. 

"  The  letters  of  Lady  Montague  are  singular  productions— at  times  womanly,  then  rnns- 
culine,  then  possessing  an  element  which  goes  beyond  and  outside  of  each.  They  have  in 
tellect,  soul  and  passiou ;  now  love,  now  hatred,  now  poetry,  now  fire— again  sad,  then 
gay,  show  ring  with  tha  sweets  of  roses,  or,  as  the  mood  changes,  with  the  bitter  of  gull. 
So  mufh  diversity  of  mood,  intellect,  feeling,  we  rarely  find  combined  in  one  mind."— 
Boston  Bee. 

"  The  letters  are  valuable  and  amusing,  and  afford  ft  curious  and  instructive  inhight  into 
English  manners  and  opinions." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  They  are  full  of  a  beautiful  simplicity,  which  charms  us  no  less  than  their  geuius  and 
wit."— N.  Y.  Eve.  Mirror. 

"  The  most  admirable  letters  written  in  onr  language." — Boston  Intelligencer. 

"  They  arc,  indeed,  models  of  epistolary  communications."— Newark  Advertiser. 

'•  Everybody  ought  to  study  these  letters  for  their  style." — Peterson's  Magazine. 

"  They  are  written  in  a  style  surpassingly  elegant,  yet  free  from  all  affectation  or  pre 
tension."—^.  Y.  Familu  Visitor. 

"  She  portrays  character  and  scenery  with  admirable  effect." — Concord  (N.  H.)  Statesman. 

"  Her  letters  are  written  wilh  gia^e  and  spirit,  and  ofteu  with  positive  beauty."— N.  Y. 
Examiner. 

"  The  biographical  sketch  of  the  authoress  (by  Mrs.  Hale),  invests  her  wri.ings  with  a 
peculiar  interest  from  the  sympathy  it  can  not  bnt  awaken  fbr  one  so  p'.fied  ar.d  beautiful, 
and  each  succeeding  page  deepens  the  interest,  and  leads  the  reader  on  from  li-tior  tolotter." 
— Detroit  Advertiser. 

"  They  will  be  found  valuable  as  well  as  amusing -instructive  as  well  a»  entertaining." 
—Phila.  Inquirer. 


THE    PLAY-DAY    BOOK 

NEW  STORIES  FOR  LITTLE  FOLKS. 

BY  FANNY  FERN. 

Illustrated  by  FRED.   M.   COFFIN. 
I  Vol.  i6mo,  286  pp.     Price,  75  cents.      Full-Gilt,  $i    25. 


"  Fanny  Fern  has  few  superiors  among  American  authoresses  as  a  writer  for  young  people. 
Her  best  qualities  of  head  and  heart  are  always  called  into  exercise  in  this  department  of 
composition.  Her  sympathies  with,  children  are  true  and  lively,  and  hence  she  possesses  a 
rare  instinctive  tact  in  finding  the  way  to  their  hearts.  The  short  sketches  in  which  sho 
excels,  rather  than  in  labored  narratives,  are  in  perfect  accordance  with  their  tnsk-s.  Her 
language,  too,  is  choice  and  effective,  consisting,  to  a  great  extent,  of  the  good,  short, 
motherly,  Saxon  words,  which  give  such  a  hearty,  home-bred  expression  to  style.  In  writ 
ing  for  children,  the  exuberant  vivacity,  which  often  runs  wild  in  her  more  ambitious  per 
formances,  is  toned  down  to  more  quiet  and  delicate  accords,  delighting  the  young  ear  with 
sweet  melodies.  The  contents  of  this  volume,  we  think,  are  not  surpassed  by  any  produc 
tions  of  her  pen.  Many  of  the  pieces  are  mere  familiar  records  of  personal  experience,  and 
possess  a  greater  charm  on  that  account.  The  pathos  and  tenderness  which  mark  some  of 
the  best  sketches,  commend  them  to  readers  of  every  age,  and  are  a  far  more  potent,  as  well 
as  a  more  graceful  means  of  winning  an  enviable  fame,  than  the  wenpons  of  sarcasm  and 
personality,  which  are  never  fitted  to  -womanly  hands." — Neic  York  Tribune. 

"  This  gora  of  a  volume  is  given  to  the  public  in  the  best  style  of  the  publications  of  the 
publishers.  There  are  forty-five  tales  or  stories,  every  one  of  which  will  be  read  with  delight 
by  the  young,  for  whom  the  vol  iroe  was  especially  written,  in  response  to  numerous  calls 
from  the  admirers  of  'Liule  Ferns.'  The  author  says  she  has  cnlled  the  book,  the  'Play- 
Day  Book,'  because  it  was  designed  to  be  read  out  of  school,  when  children  want  to  bo 
amused.  It  contains  instruction  as  well  as  amusement."— Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  stories  are  told  in  a  sprightly,  winning  style,  and  sure  to  please  nnd  improve  chil 
dren."—  CJtri-linn  Freeman,  Boxton. 

"A  bright,  cheerful,  breezy  little  book,  not  a  bit  tiresome  to  the  tiniest  of  the  little  ones 
for  whom  it  is  prepared,  is  this  collection  of  short,  quiet,  childish  stories."— New  York 
Independent. 

"  Here  are  forty-flvo  stories  told  in  Fanny  Fern's  crisp,  lively  style,  original  and  enter 
taining."—  Buff-ilo  Courier. 

"A  very,  very  good  book  for  children."— Ph iladelphia  Congregationalism 

"  Its  leaves  open  like  those  of  the  rose  at  the  dawn  of  day."— Phila.  Mercury. 

"Such  capital  stories  about  boys,  such  sweet  stories  about  girls,  such  sorrowful  stories 
about  the  unfortunate,  such  tremendous  stories  about  lions  and  things,  such  good  stories 
about  kind  and  loving  old  folks,  were  never  written  before,  and  will  never  be  written  again, 
until  Aunt  Fanny  gives  us  another  book  to  laugh,  and  cry,  and  wonder  over."— New  York 
Ledger . 


Masons'   Library  of  Standard  Tales. 


Now  READY, 

THE  CANTERBURY  TALES. 

BY  HARRIET  LEE. 

2  Vols.    izmo.     Price,  $i   75. 

"  For  power  of  conception,  picturesqueness,  clear  and  contrasted  characterization, 
subtle  interest,  vraisemblance,  and  moral  effect,  they  have  very  few  equals  in  English 
story  literature,  and  still  fewer  superiors." — Philadelphia  Saturday  Evening  Po*t. 

"  A  work  which  has  received  the  commendation  of  Lord  Byron  hardly  needs  further 
comment  at  this  late  day.  They  are  marked  by  a  vivid  imagination,  keen  discrimination 
of  character,  and  excellent  powers  of  description,  all  subservient  to  the  development  of 
the  purest  moral  lessons." — Boston  Journal. 

"  These  tales  were  first  published  half  a  century  ago,  and  met  with  a  remarkable  suc 
cess  at  the  time  of  their  appearance,  and  have  steadily  maintained  their  ground  since 
among  the  most  remarkable  of  short  fictions  thai  have  appeared  in  the  English  lan 
guage."— .Bostow  Atlas. 

'•  These  tales  have  long  since  attained  the  position  of  classics  in  English  literature. 
They  were  written  in  the  time  of  Byron,  and  obtained  an  immense  and  immediate  popu 
larity.  They  passed  through  several  editions,  and  were,  we  believe,  translated  into  sev 
eral  foreign  tongues.  As  daguerreotypes  of  an  age  among  the  most  brilliant  in  history 
they  can  not  fail  to  awaken  a  deep  interest  in  the  popular  mind."—  Utica  Herald. 


"A  STRING  OF  DIAMONDS  SPARKLING  IN  GOLD." 

THE    POETICAL    WORKS 

of 

HORACE  AND  JAMES  SMITH, 

With    the    "  REJECTED    ADDRESSES." 

i  Vol.    izmo.     Price,  $i    25. 
EDITED    BY    EPES    SARGENT. 

"  We  are  prompted  to  say,  without  flattery  of  authors  or  editors,  or  a  straw's  concern 
for  the  publishers'  profits,  that  this  is  one  of  the  sweetest  morsels  for  the  lovers  of  poetry 
to  be  met  with  in  any  English  reprint  which  we  have  seen  this  many  a  day.  Not  that 
they  will  meet  with  the  towering  genius  of  a  Milton,  nor  the  terrible  meteoric  sublimity 
of  a  Byron,  nor  the  pathos  and  piety  of  a  Cowper  ;  but  with  a  string  of  diamonds  spark 
ling  in  gold,  pure  poetry,  conversational,  common-sense  ballads,  witty  and  vitchinp; 
rhymes,  all  chaste,  child  like,  and  beautiful,  thrown  together  in  delightful  order  in  the 
midst  of  disorder,  and  concurring  to  the  onfi  result  of  delighting  the  fancy,  and  improv 
ing  the  social  feelings."— New  York  Chronicle. 


Ill 


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RSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY   OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORN 


ERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA          LIBRARY   OF  THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFQRI 


^=5^ 


I 

TCI 


